So Brave, So Quiet
by SomeCoolName
Summary: John Watson has always been perfectly in charge of his life, thank you very much. But an intriguing murder, nine suspects, an alcoholic sister and Sherlock's new interest in him - will it be enough to make him realise what 'being in charge' really means.
1. The Pool

Note: Hi everyone! I'm back with a new project that I started 5 months ago. The story will be 22 chapters long and will be published both in French and in English (here and on AO3). It's a casefic, also focusing on the Sherlock and John's relationship. It takes place at the end of Season 1. The title is inspired by a quote from Hemingway "You're so brave and quiet, I forget you are suffering," and the story itself is mainly inspired by all the amazing work of **Doctorg** and **PerverselyVex**.

Rating: **M**. M. Okay, not kidding here, this story will talk about Dom/Sub and BDSM. If you don't like that kind of relationship, please take a look at all the other amazing fanfictions out there! If you don't know what Dom/Sub or BDSM is, please read an explanation first on Wikipedia.

But wait, don't panic!: This story is safe, sane and consensual. There will be no heavy pain stuff. Plus, if you read _Fifty Shades of Grey_, you can forget everything about it, because _So Brave, So Quiet_ has _nothing_ to do with it - as that book has _nothing_ to do with BDSM ;)

Beta:  **PJTL156** & **J. Puddles. **Thank you so much ladies, you ARE the best!

In short: Enjoy your reading and please review; I'd love to hear from you, dear readers :)

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><p>John Hamish Watson, of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, has always been perfectly in charge of his life, thank you very much. Late of the Army Medical Department, perfect son, flawless brother, the ex-soldier native of the north London suburb was all you could expect from a man: honest, courageous and reliable. In short, someone you could really rely on. The only real moments where his mind could get some rest for a few minutes was when he was getting away, his eyes closed, his hearing kept on alert by a melody in which he was losing himself.<p>

John liked music like others liked to fall on their couch before putting their feet on the coffee table, returning from a working day where their boss had shown them once again that first, he wasn't going to allow their pay rise they have been waiting for, and that secondly, the onion supplement in the burger at lunch was not a good idea.

Of course, at Keble School, where he spent his younger years, the young boy with the blond hair only held a musical recorder with a bad taste because he had chewed the plastic, with little interest, too many times. No piano with ebony and ivory keys where his hands got lost every time; no violin where his kind of chubby cheek - as too many times underlined by Timothy Fester - landed before squealing a clumsy melody, but oh so expressive. No partition of Chopin, Mozart or Respighi to sight-read between semiquaver and F-clef, but instead an umpteenth interpretation of Lennon's _Imagine_, that John started to hate from all his future-ex-soldier soul.

At the Watson's, the only radio was in the kitchen placed on top of the fridge. John's parents only turned on the radio in the morning for the weather forecast and Camilia Tomes' Gardening Show, before turning it off when the news started. There was no musical radio station. It was either classical, retro or even less trendy music. So, when John got a Walkman by his aunt Annie for his sixteenth birthday, suffice to say his ears only left the quilted earphone when he had to take a shower.

On his bedside table stood around twenty tapes, swapped and more rarely bought, all representative of musical styles very different, for which he had the same interest. Only Madonna didn't have a place in his earphone, already listened in a loop - and way too loudly - in the next room, where Harry put on the walls posters of the singer with the cone bra. Thinking about it today made John realise there were some signs concerning his sister's future liking, indeed.

All in all, John attended three concerts in his life. The first when he was 17, when he went to the concert of a boy from his class in a bar in West London, where perfectly hysterical girls screamed the name of the singer with greasy hair and dubious dentition. The second one happened the day of his 22th birthday, when the orchestra of his village - not exceptional but however pleasant - played a Rachmaninov étude with an out of tune violin and a harpist with a cold. The third one occurred in Camp Bastion, when the improvised choir sang a Christmas song full of hope in front of an audience wrapped-up in battledress, of which eight died the next day in a muddled and bloody attack which broke out near the camp.

In conclusion, and despite his musical education extremely reduced, John Hamish Watson _really_ liked music.

So, seated on the humid tiles which were soaking the bottom of his trousers, only a few meters away from the green parka which was keeping him warm a few seconds ago, he asked himself why the resounded song was only giving him a trembling heart and an awful feeling of sickness.

_Ah, ah, ah, ah stayin' alive, stayin' alive..._

Truly not expected.

"Do you mind if I get that?"

"No, no, please, you've got the rest of your life," answered Sherlock, shaking the gun he had in his hand as if it was a simple Kleenex tissue without any danger.

Truly not expected _at all_.

Jim Moriarty, the man they were chasing for a few months, turned around, taking out the origin of the strident bell: a mobile so modern John had never seen one like it. Jim brought it to his ear before whispering a 'Sorry', for the only detective of the room who seemed barely disturbed by the intrusion. The chlorinated water aground on the pool side was slowly moving back up the doctor's trousers, reaching his calf which made him shiver under the cold and odious feeling of the sticky fabric. And even if John hated being all wet with his clothes on, as much as he hated to sing _Imagine there's no country_, let's be honest, he preferred that to exploding all guts out because of a fucking parka deflagration.

Since when did life consist on being abducted by a criminal in front of his home, bound hand and foot in the back of a truck without any number plate, before being taken to a pool with a morbid past where he was put in a jacket made of Semtex? Of course, John knew the reason: since half of his rent was paid by the unique, on and only consulting detective in the world, a music-lover and sociopath who mastered the art of rhetoric as much as firearms. Which could have seemed dangerous - which John particularly loved.

The ex-soldier brushed all of his thoughts aside before coming back to the humid reality of his trousers, which were sticking to his right leg. A quick gaze to his flatmate who was on his feet in front of him, and his face as white as the tiles, permitted a tiny smile on the detective's face. They were maybe going to die, but at least it was perfectly clear that nothing that was happening in the empty pool was even remotely normal. Great; at least John didn't have the impression he became entirely crazy.

They waited for several long minutes whilst the only sound was the theatrical whispering of the criminal which echoed in the vast room, shutting up the lapping of a water where John imagined he was going to die, again and again. In front of him, Sherlock was still pointing his gun on the prohibitive suit. It was stupid and completely disconcerting to see how much of their lives, and deaths too, for the three of them, summarised to the first detective's phalanx.

Turning over in one go, like an actor coming onto the stage, Moriarty faced them again before sliding his mobile in his pocket and joining his hands in a joyful snap, offering them a smile worthy of a clown straight from a Stephen King book:

"This meeting was really enriching, Sherlock, but I must be going now."

The young man hesitated a moment, closing his eyes. His hand awkwardly tightening up on the gun, and his mind clearly full of questions, before Jim Moriarty stopped all of his interrogations:

"But we'll see each other soon."

"I hope so."

"Good evening, Sherlock."

"Good evening."

The criminal offered him one last smile, full of honey and razor blades, and with a slow pace, worthy of the psychopath he was, he left the vast room, the suit covered by the reflection of the bluish water, dancing at the sound of a faint melody. It could have been beautiful, if everything wasn't this petrifying.

"Oh my God," spat John when the door had definitely closed behind the object of all their nightmares.

"John," Sherlock hastened to call, already on his knees in front of his flatmate of whom he pressed his forehead before lifting with his thumb an eyelid to examine his eyes.

"Easy..."

"John, are you okay?"

"I'm fine Sherlock, I didn't..."

"John, how are you feeling?" he added as he had no answer.

"I'm fine!" The blond man yelled, who never understand why Sherlock always needed to use his first name as if he was slightly half-wit by not understanding the detective was talking to him.

"I'll warn Lestrade."

"Yes, good idea..."

The ex-soldier didn't close his eye for one second, following his friend with his tired gaze getting back on his feet, before pacing up and down in front of him, his thumbs nervously typing on the mobile he just got out of his pocket.

"What just happened, Sherlock?"

"Well, we finally saw Jim Moriarty's face and found out his weak spot."

"His musical taste?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and smiled. It was one of those smiles where he only raised the left corner of his mouth, blocking in a rictus and creating a subtle dimple where all John's oh-so-very-manly will seemed to get lost, before he started his incessant walk again, his eyes fixed on the screen.

"Moriarty likes to make a spectacle of himself."

"What a nice euphemism," said John ironically. He set his hand down on the ground for leverage, before getting back up onto his feet with difficulty.

"John!" called his friend, completely shocked by his gesture.

"Oh for Christ's sake, Sherlock, I'm fine, and if I stay seated one second longer, I'll end up with a wet arse and no way I'll let that happen, got it?"

Despite the perfectly serious and concerned look on the youngest man's face, John surprised himself by smiling, and his hands didn't shiver once. Because no matter if a psychopath with an international reputation had just placed a time bomb on his back, which could have blown up Westminster, it was out of the question if he ended up with a wet crotch in front of half of Scotland Yard.

Sherlock looked at him getting up, replacing his mistreated jumper under the parka and put his mobile back in his pocket. There they were, alone and despite the Semtex, the guns and the little red dancing dots on their chests, they were alive, so everything was fine. With a hand cold for staying too long on the tile, John massaged his neck with his head hanging back, his eyes wide open, staring at a crackling light bulb he hadn't noticed before. Sherlock probably detected it as soon as he entered the pool. Because Sherlock Holmes was always seeing everything by dint of observing shamelessly, exactly as he was doing now, scrutinising John's face as if it was a common bacterium placed under his microscope.

"What?" asked the older man, the grimace of impatience reasserting itself on his pale face.

"Nothing."

"You're looking at me."

"I'm looking at you, John."

"Why?"

_"Sherlock _?"

The two men turned around and by the swing door's little porthole, the black helmet of Scotland Yard's best men allowed the doctor to take a deep and painful inspiration. With a sharp gesture, Gregory Lestrade pushed the double door open and sighed noisily - a relieved or weary complaint, nobody could have known. John looked at the police team invading the surrounding areas, sadly too familiar with all that was happening, pulling a face when the black boots make the tiles dirty with mud from the outside, when the DI's voice shouted:

"You two, get out."

* * *

><p>In front of the indoor pool, on the cold concrete covered with gum, a crowd of curious citizens were rushing behind a garish yellow ribbon, their eyes bulging despite the luminosity more than weak, made partially bestial at the mere idea they could admire a body laid down under a shroud, a man with handcuffs or just a little blood. More than once, Gregory Lestrade held himself back from catching onto one of those onlookers who put their dirty nose on a crime scene and making Lestrade realise that no, there was absolutely no pleasure in discovering a dead body. Luckily, the DI was professional. Most of the time.<p>

On his right, seated on the ambulance's ledge, John was following with his blue gaze a pen a doctor was moving from right to left. Sherlock, as for him, accepted the blanket on his shoulders at least.

"Graham..."

"Gregory," he corrects, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"My name's Sherlock."

"I know you git, but _my_ name is Gregory."

"Possibly," concludes Sherlock. He lacked concern for this insignificant data before starting again, back to his flatmate, his eyes sliding from the DI to the nurse on his knees next to them. "I think John should go to hospital to have some examinations."

"Sherlock..." laughed the blond man with a giggle; he was absolutely _not_ amused.

"Why?" asked Lestrade. He put his fists against his hips, his tired eyes filled with lack of sleep and caffeine already expiring - _my God_ how the nights with Holmes were everything but relaxing.

"He wore a vest full of Semtex for an hour and almost got killed, don't you think he'll need some psychological support?"

The DI makes a sideways step and tilts his head to observe the ex-soldier on which the nurse was just putting a blood pressure monitor, and Sherlock turned around with the same breath. Three pairs of worried eyes were now looking at John who pushed back his head before bursting into a stunned laugh.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, are you really that worried? Everything's fine; _I_ am fine. Nothing exploded, I still have all of my body parts tied together. The only consequence of tonight's events is that I won't ever be able to listen to the Bee Gees without getting sick, but I think I'll be okay."

The nurse in front of him raises an eyebrow and John felt obliged to reassure him:

"Private joke. It makes sense after everything we've been through, trust me."

"Okay, it's too late for bullshit but I want your damn arses tomorrow at 9A.M in my office, are we clear?"

"Clear," answered John, his head nodding with a military precision, getting up on his feet once the armband was off his arm.

"But Gra-Gregory!" called Sherlock, stopping right away by the oldest man's forefinger, raised like a threat between their two faces.

"If John says he's fine then _he's fine_. Now, Sherlock, go back home, take a shower, enjoy a good scotch and do... whatever it is that you usually do when I come to save you, and tomorrow I'll want every detail on this Moriarty."

Sherlock's face became withdrawn, the mask of the worried man giving way to the one cold and harsh that nobody on this damn earth really liked, and the most fake smile on the planet appeared on his mouth. Oh, how Sherlock hated it when someone was telling him what to do - and it was precisely why Gregory acted this way. The brown haired man let the blanket fall on the ground and put his hand in his right pocket before walking toward the yellow ribbon uncoiled between two police cars. If a lot of adjectives were suitable to describe Sherlock, for sure, _mature_ wasn't one of them.

"Well, I'd better go before he forgets me and we end up paying two taxis for nothing. Thank you again, Greg; see you tomorrow," smiled John. He shook the DI's hand with one last smile before running behind the £1100 coat he was seeing more often from the back that from the front.

* * *

><p>When Sherlock pushed the door to get onto the first floor and John discovered above his shoulder the living-room was already lit by the few lamps that were still turned on, the doctor let out a deep sigh which moved his entire being. His respiration was a step fiendishly complex, always vital but sometimes so painful. John had lost his breath once, his face buried in the sand, his shoulder bleeding and the pain reigning on all his body. He swore to himself he'll never live through something like that again.<p>

This was without counting on Mike Stamford and his own need to find a flat, before he had to go back to East Barnet due to a lack of money. It was now a daily occurrence that he was losing his breath during the chase of a black coat at the pursuit of a criminal. But that wasn't the worst part, of course; the adrenaline and the madness of the moment were always creating a primary and vital need to run, catch, and _win_. The worst part was here, in this living-room with the improbable wallpaper, the spying skull and the smell between dust and greatness where Sherlock reeled continuously. The worst was the calm.

John closed his eyes for a while until his right foot struck the ground violently, making him jump with surprise - did he really just faint?

"John?" asked Sherlock, his shirt sleeves around his elbows (since when did he get rid of his jacket?). In his hands were two tea pots he clearly couldn't decide between. "Is everything all right?"

"Yeah. Yes. Are you making tea?"

"Isn't this what you do when we finish a case?"

"Yes, precisely, _I_ do it," he answered, his smile even more dangerous than his gun, betraying his incomprehensible face to Sherlock's gesture, before he came by to take the pots out of his hands. "Which one do you want?"

The brown haired man made a vague gesture with his hand and walked towards the desk before John took care of the kettle. His temples were hurting him. His eyes were hurting him. Damn it, his _eyelashes_ were hurting him. When was the last time he had a proper meal? Oh yes, of course. Noon. Well if a crisp-bread sandwich and three peanuts stolen in the pub down the road could really constitute a meal. Faced with Moriarty, however, he wasn't hungry at all, but as always, everything had to become calm before the storm.

"Tell me, John."

John pinched his lips together from left to right, pouring the boiling water in two mismatched cups and answered, raising his voice to be heard by his friend:

"They took off the bag I had on my head once we entered the pool and it was the first time I saw him," taking the two cups, too tired to avoid getting burnt he came back to the living-room before sitting in his chair, Sherlock in front of him.

The detective put his long fingers one against another in his traditional thinking pose, looking at the blond haired man with attention.

"First, he opened his arms big, shouting _'Surprise!'_, which was not very funny but he laughed anyway. Then he asked me if I suffered too much in the back of the truck and whispered very loudly he was hoping I did, then he got closer to me and he..." pinching his lips together, he smiled for one second and started looking at Sherlock again. "Buttoned up my parka. So that I '_don't catch a cold'_. For the love of God, Sherlock, who could raise a man like that?"

"Focus, Freud."

"Sorry. In short, he thanked me for coming, then he told me it was an experience very interesting, which he couldn't wait to discover all the aspects of, that we were waiting for the lead role and that he was craving to meet the star, the one on which every head was turning."

"Me."

"Of course _you_, Sherlock. It's always about you," said the ex-soldier smiling, slowly drinking his burning tea.

The brown haired man, starting to drink his tea too, had a micro, absolutely-not-amused smile, his piercing gaze never leaving his friend in front of him.

"Did you notice that, as soon as you got in, I no longer existed? When he got his phone call, he apologized to _you_. He clarified he wanted to see _you_ again. Then he wished _you_ a good evening."

"Psychological torture - to make you feel useless."

"That's what a lot of people think, right?"

Tilting his head, Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"A lot of people believe in you, John. They trust you."

"In everyday life, of course, but when I'm with you on the field, I'm invisible. Like when Lestrade meets us. He always says _'Sherlock'_ and not _'Sherlock and John'_."

"Well, you don't have my deduction skills but you..."

"No, Sherlock, I wasn't trying to have your sympathy, I just wanted to tell you so, that's all."

The silence settled between them like a third guest of whom they didn't dare to interrupt, and both of them, British as always, finished their tea before it got cold. His eyelids full of a fictive sand, John spread his legs in front of him, turning his neck on its side before getting up on his feet with his cup now empty in his right hand.

"Well. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, John."

The ex-soldier did his best to not throw his mug in the empty sink.

* * *

><p>In his bed, the sheets as cold as night, John rolled over for the 38th time. It was only temporary - the dancing red dots in front of his eyes and the voice of a man which was crossing him as if he wasn't even there – but, meanwhile, finding sleep was even more difficult than the tiles in the pool. Shit. Everything was going to come down to this, he felt it – the same way he felt when he came back from Camp Bastion when everything tasted like sand and all was hot as the desert.<p>

With a head heavy from sleep pulling him in, his muscles trembled under weary spasms, so close, so close to finally falling asleep, before a voice brought him back to the harsh and exhausting reality in one go:

"John."

He was already straightening himself up before being fully conscious of it. With his eyes bitten by night, he saw in front of him the door wide open, the catch confined in the detective's hand, standing on his feet and still fully dressed, his gaze as sharp as a microscope's.

"Holy fuck, _Sherlock_! What do you... what are you... Oh my God, you're still worried, right? Everything's fine, Sherlock, I can handle it, okay?" he said shouting, the mere concept of living in the city and being surrounded by sleeping neighbours had slipped his mind.

"Good."

The blond man opened his eyes and the brown haired man closed his, like a quiet consent. Softly, he closed the door and finally, the room got back its semblance of sanctuary where John liked to get rest when he had a chance. John resumed his position under the blanket with all his weight, deliberately thrusting his head in the soft pillow and his brain groggy with sleep, which was repeating those four single words which never quitted the mind of this man, late of the Army Medical Department, perfect son, flawless brother, ex-soldier, honnest, courageous and reliable he has always, always has been.

_I can handle it_.


	2. The Head

**Note : **Hello! First, thank you so much for the follows and thank you **Yuujiro Hiromi** for your kind review :). Enjoy your reading.  
><strong>Betas : <strong>**PJTL156** and **J. Puddles** , thank you thank you thank you.

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><p>As he had already done a thousand times before, John signs the prescription before giving it to the patient in front of him. The teenager carefully reads it and raises his red nose -from too much blowing- toward the older man:<p>

"Seriously, do they teach you how to write this badly at medical school?"

"Sure, that's part of the conditions to have a mention," immediately answers John, putting back the cap on his pen.

"Well, you got the highest honour then."

John breathes a sigh of relief, half-amused, half-exhausted by this endless day and gets up on his feet to take the young patient to the door before stopping in front of the coat rack. His white hand - the evidence of iron deficiency - grabs a green parka and puts it on, before making the shock of a hair cut by his mother disappear under the hood.

"Thanks, sir," says the teenager without a second glance, but John doesn't answer - how could he say something when the kid is slipping on his thin shoulders, without shivering, a _green parka_?

The door closes and he finally breathes. It's just a piece of fabric of poor quality and no way it's going to be a phobia, so John forgets the fictive red dots which seem printed on his retina and sits in his Speaker's chair which is only impressive by its name. He doesn't like this leather seat; during the summer, his bare arms stick to the chair by the sweat, and the rest of the time it makes an exasperating _shriiek_ when he moves on it - like a clown with peep-peep hidden in his shoes. No wonder the kids of the neighbourhood laugh openly at his face.

He cleans his desk made of plastic, a bit, turns around to the 15'' screen and automatically takes a glimpse at the Guardian website. Scottish Independence, politics issues in Eastern Europe and the start of the new year of school; nothing that could be a case. A new one that would not finish in a pool is preferable. He barely has time to go on his blog to check new incoming messages before the incessant _bip_ of his phone brings him back to the so-calm order of his doctor life. He turns off his screen before his next patient comes in the room. Gastroenteritis. _Fantastic_.

* * *

><p>His last patient examined and reassured, John closes his surgery's door with the key he's about to drop at the reception desk, when he bumps into the head doctor, Mark Barrow. This forty-year-old man, blond hair with big blue eyes and thick eyebrows, late surgeon, now a man in charge of this small clinic in North London who spends most of his time between those white walls. Quite handsome. This man sways constantly between consultations on the run and wandering hands with the nurse in the first floor cupboards. Often, John thinks to himself that if he had a tan as fake as Barrow's, he could get off in a flash. Then he remembers the existence of skin cancer and miraculously, his libido soothes right away.<p>

"Good day, John?"

"Good day," he confirms, smiling, his elbows on the counter's reception.

"I saw on the planning that you're doing your blood donation tomorrow? Is Sophie going to take care of it? "

"Yes, she's the one who did it the last time."

"And she's kind of cute," adds Mark in a knowing wink.

"Yes, she's kind of cute."

How stupid it is, this way of repeating word for word his superior's claims; a useless legacy of his military training.

"I heard you dated Sarah last time? Nice; she's very hot with her _two big advantages_... "

"Oh yes, very hot but... it didn't work out, you know."

"If that doesn't work out with a woman like that, I'm sorry to say you're a fag, mate."

The smile John imposes on his lips hurts him so much it's all his self-esteem that seems to crack open under the effort.

"Good evening, Mark."

"See you tomorrow."

The blond man salutes him with a vague gesture and leaves the clinic.

Why do men always feel obligated to think another man's gay if he doesn't like a woman with an oversized chest? John already dated women with short hair and a bust loose in an A cup bra. She remained a woman, and some of them were much more attractive to him than what the society imposes as a beauty ideal.

Anyway, her breasts didn't have a say in the matter. It didn't work out with Sarah because of that thing so simple his male friend seemed to sometimes forget: it didn't work out on the human level. It could have probably worked on the skin-against-skin level, but to see her collapsing after the Black Lotus case proved to John the woman wasn't prepared for the lifestyle he had with Sherlock.

So, yes, Sherlock's not a flatmate like any other and instead of having a fight about who didn't do the washing-up, they run when the night comes round London to catch a rapist or an evader. They don't have shelves with their name on it in the fridge because the head inside it since last Monday takes too much space. They never spend a cozy night in front of the telly because burglaries happen at night and no way would they wait until the next morning to go and investigate. So, admittedly, it's not normal, but normal is boring and boring is _dangerous_.

In the trembling subway, between the baby's tears in his blue pushchair and the noisy laughs of the three teenagers around him, John keeps his eyes fixed on the map above the door, his lips pinched in an unconscious grimace. Two more stops and he'll be able to leave the furnace produced by men with belted suits and unbearable pressure, and by the kids coming back home after school. Sometimes, John wonders how it's humanly possible to raise a child in London. Some other times, he wonders if he'd have to leave this city he loves so much to raise a hypothetical family. And as he doesn't quite know if the idea terrifies or pleases him. When that happens, he does everything he can to keep this gulf sensation in his chest quiet.

At Baker Street where a _Boris Bikes_ terminal is being settled, the ex-soldier quickens his pace and enters 221B. In the small dark hallway, Mrs. Hudson, a bin bag at his feet, frantically cleans the glass of her apartment door, mumbling about Mrs. Perkins' nephew who put his greasy fingers on it, before leaving his chocolate candy paper on the wooden floor.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hudson."

"John!" cries out the woman, jumping in surprise, tightening up the dirty duster against her pullover. "Where have you been? I went upstairs to bring you some scones and Sherlock told me you went out!"

"I was at the clinic. Since Sarah is on sick leave, they are under-staffed, so... " smiles John, his thumbs uselessly pointing behind his shoulder.

"Couldn't you take a day off?"

"No," he smiles, putting a hand on the guardrail, ready to take refuge on the first floor to hide from the remonstrance of this mother who's not even his.

"Do you have something to eat up there?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

"Other than leftovers?"

The doctor slightly shakes his head and doesn't answer this time before saluting the landlady and climbing the creaking stairs.

"I'll be right up to bring you some pea soup as soon as I'm done with the cleaning!" shouts a shrill voice from downstairs.

On the first floor, the doors are already open and the feeble light of this September end of the day is the vestige of a too short summer the Londoners already regret. Sherlock, seated at the desk settled between the two windows, types with his long fingers on the keyboard on a computer which is actually his. It's so memorable John dithers to crack open a bottle of champagne.

"New case?" asks the blond man, taking off his vest which he puts on the hanger behind him.

Sherlock barely raises his head, his clear eyes scrutinising one long second the doctor's body from top to bottom, before looking at the screen again.

"No."

John nods -uselessly- and finds his way to the kitchen where he discovers a clean table, however scattered with crumbs, and an empty sink. He doesn't comment out loud this remarkable change and walks to the kettle he fills to overflowing, smiling as he doesn't have to contort the object to avoid pans and other utensils usually filling the sink.

"John, where were you?" suddenly asks the younger man up on his feet, walking toward him, more serious than ever.

"If you're going to blame me for the thousandth time I didn't hear your _'John, tissue'_, or _'John, Mrs. Hudson breathes too noisily, make her stop_,' then forget it."

"You were _over there_, weren't you?"

"_Over there. Y_ou mean at the clinic, my workplace, where I save lives? Then yes, I was over there," smiles John instead of getting _really_ pissed off.

"You saw a kid with bronchitis, a case of gastroenteritis, three cases of eczema and a teenage girl who came for you to sign a dispensation for a sport class; how is that saving lives?"

"What are you reproaching me for exactly?" asks the doctor, raising his voice, always feeling terribly awkward when Sherlock states the exact composition of his day without any decency - no wonder John carefully avoids the living-room the morning following his _autoerotic_ nights.

"We didn't even speak about Moriarty," answers the brunet, enunciating every word as if he already repeated them a thousand times.

John bursts into laughter and turns his back on the detective before walking to the cupboard with the used catch: the one where they're accumulating tea they're always buying in a large number. He barely hesitates and finally takes the first one in front of him - a Russian mix of black tea from China and India - and continues:

"It's okay, Sherlock, it was... "

"_Yesterday_," cuts off the brunet, standing on his feet across the kitchen table, with a straight face and eyes like magnets fixed on the older man.

John discreetly inspires, pinches his lips from top to bottom, just taking the time to calm the tiny trembling on his left cheek and turns around, smiling summerly.

"You heard what Lestrade said this morning at Scotland Yard: Moriarty left for Switzerland and they won't ask for extradition to avoid a diplomatic incident. He's watched by the authority so he won't make a move. If you want, go light a candle at St. Bride and pray for him to fall off a cliff or that he suffocates with an expired chocolate, but meanwhile, I really don't think it's useful to worry. "

"But you went back to work, as if nothing happened... "

"What about you, Sherlock, what did you do today?" John smiles as far as possible, determined to make this impossibly stubborn life still go on, whatever he might say.

"I... called Molly concerning that budgerigar theft - it was the gardener as I told you. I finished my experiment on the head I put in the fridge and you'll be glad to know I threw it away as you asked me to do. I changed the battery in the remote control so you don't have to complain every time you get up to change the channel directly on the television. And I might have used the jumper your sister offered you, as a mop, when the experiment I did on the head went... _boom_."

John held his laugh with difficulty whilst pouring the boiling water in the two cups he put on the table, before taking his place to face his flatmate. They make the ceramics bang together, smile, and in one movement get their mugs close to their mouths before blowing softly.

"In conclusion, a day like any other. Like me. "

"But, John, you're not like me."

"Oh right, you're the _brain_ and I'm the _heart_? You'd be the one analyzing everything coldly while I'd be the one suffering the _emotional consequences_?", smiles John, putting back his hot cuppa, quoting the words they read once in a bottom-end article coming from a tabloid even more bottom-end, when the royals gossips weren't as satisfying as before, the detective and his acolyte becoming suddenly the centre of their attention.

Sherlock politely smiles, aware of the words' debatable absurdity and slowly drinks his beverage, filling the room with the fragrance of tea. It takes quite a while before one of the two men open their mouth again, but that's okay. Since a long time ago -since the first day, quite frankly- John understood that with Sherlock, their relationship is so simple and so pure, that even silence is not embarrassing. It's priceless, really, because if he had to burn a note every time he was seated next to a date, having nothing to tell her and suffering from the silence as the more terrible torture, he would be simply broke. Not that he's really rich. And not that Sherlock is a date.

"What were you doing on your computer, by the way?"

"I was checking if there were some seats left."

"Seats for what?"

"Wednesday evening, Giuseppe Denosa leads the London orchestra at the Royal Festival Hall. They'll be playing Bruch and Liszt's_ Préludes._"

"Ah," John nods before chancing his thin lips to the hot edge of the ceramic.

"No, not _Ah_, John; Denosa! Liszt! _Les Préludes_!" insists the detective, every word louder than the previous one - and said with so much more passion that the blond man stops in his savouring to raise an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth.

"Okay, sorry. So, are there any seats left?"

"A few...," answers Sherlock, shrugging a shoulder, obviously holding back the excitation sparkling in his eyes like a million stars.

For sure, John didn't have many occasions in his short life spent next to Sherlock Holmes to see him passionate -or even human- but there's something about the classical music that always makes the detective terribly spontaneous, and suddenly his coldness gains a few degrees and his person gains in sympathy. John won't ever forget that Sunday evening of last March, when finishing to read a novel next to the fireplace, he raised his head to look at Sherlock, stretched out in his pyjamas on the couch since one hour earlier, listening to Respighi's _Pines of Rome_. His hands were joined in a silent prayer, his feet exceeding over the armrest, and even if this evening was going as usual, John could have sworn he saw a tear running down the youngest man's cheek. By far, and by his eyes bitten by his age he's trying to forget, the doctor wasn't sure he didn't have a hallucination. He stayed for a while in his armchair without moving, simply admiring the scene that never really left him. He thinks about it often, and the idea that Sherlock really could have cried just by listening to music pulls his lips in a grimace he's not really sure he has to call a smile.

"Okay, I'll come with you."

Sherlock smiles, the millions of stars seeming to gain in intensity and John rolls his eyes, tightening his fingers around his cup of tea.

"We're going to see a Philharmonic concert together now. My God, people will talk."

"Of course they will. They'll say you have a good taste in music but they'll criticise without any doubts the jumper you'll choose to wear that night."

"If you hate them so much, why don't you get rid of them in one go, when I'm off at the clinic?"

"I prefer to make the pleasure last."

The two men smile, the comfortable silence in which they feel at home wrapping them barely a second before Mrs. Hudson's piercing scream rings out from the small backyard, like a nail scratching a blackboard, making the hairs on their arms stand on end.

"Where did you throw the head, Sherlock?"

"In the blue waste," he announces, proud to show to his flatmate his teaching on the waste sorting did serve, after all.

In a jump, John gets off his chair and hurries to the stairs before hearing Sherlock's voice, leaned above the guardrail on the first floor:

"Wait, was I supposed to put it in the black one?"

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><p><strong>Note:<strong> And I hope you like murders as there'll be one in the next chapter... Meanwhile, have a nice week dear readers!


	3. The Concert

**Note:** Hello everyone! The tune Sherlock and John are listening to in this chapter can be found on Youtube, under "preludes symphonic poem" :)  
><strong>Betas:<strong> the amazing **J. Puddles**!

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><p>His nose finally out of the stifling air of Waterloo Station, John inhales and rapidly turns his head from left to right on York Road, before crossing over the street. On his watch, it's 7.24 PM, showing, once again, he left home way too early. It's not like he had a choice.<p>

It's been exactly a week since Sherlock started to daily bring up Denosa, the Royal Festival Hall or even a musical instrument, leaving John the odd impression nothing else really matters to the detective. Because with this Moriarty story being over, the ex-soldier thought -mistakenly- Sherlock would jump on the next case like his aunt Annie jumps on a Sainsbury's discount coupon. But it has been eight days since they entered the pool, eight days that nothing had happened and eight days since the detective seemed perfectly okay with inactivity, and that's a first. Music really does have a magnetic power on Sherlock Holmes.

However, facing the huge glass door spinning around, John forgets all of those anxiety dust and comes back to the very concrete reality of the Armani costumes and Ted Baker dresses surrounding him, like caviar surrounds the fly. It's a bit embarrassing, so he closes up his leather path cord vest and lowers his chin in response to all the other raised around him. He has never been in a concert hall this classy, and it smells pound up to the_ handkerchiefs_ where noses hit by the beginning of October play hide and seek. He doesn't have time to turn around in search of Sherlock Holmes in the vast hall that the vibration against his left side already makes him smile.

_Left entry. Seats 14 & 15 W. Nice shirt. SH_

John hides his mobile in his pocket and curses himself for not being able to hide this easily with his cheeks blushing, before quickening his pace to the stairs of the desired entry. His feet pressing the soft carpet, John goes up and up again before facing a young brunette with an ambiguous shirt on, who checks his e-ticket before pointing out his seat. He slides on the first of the three rows and politely apologises to the people seated who are squirming their legs to give him space - and if even ordinary people are already squeezed in, John can't wait to see how Sherlock can fit in here.

The answers comes to him quickly. In the centre of the row, wrapped in his black coat, his arms against his chest as if he's wearing a straitjacket and his legs oddly crossed and squashed against the wooden guardrail, Sherlock Holmes imposes to the room an absurd respect which already makes the doctor smiles.

"A bit tight, aren't we?"

And as he doesn't quite know if Sherlock looks at him or really tries to kill him with his dark pupils, John seats without commenting one second more the situation.

"Have you been here long?"

"Not long."

"Why are you still wearing your coat?"

"Because."

John rolls his eyes and quickly takes his jacket off and puts it on his knees before grabbing the black fabric over the detective.

"Okay, take that off now, you'll be cold when you'll get out otherwise."

Apparently, it's a contest of who will know the ceiling better tonight as Sherlock rolls his eyes so much John feels the need to do the same.

"Brat."

"_Mummy_," answers his friend before twisting himself awkwardly to let John undressing him despite the limited space.

The coat finally put on the empty seat on the detective's right side, John discovers the costume in which his flatmate got into. The fabric is classy and the ensemble so neatly bespoken, it's clear the doctor will never be able to allow himself the luxury to buy the same. He lowers his face, crashes the tip of his chin against his chest to look at his own shirt, with a very clear blue tone, on which he already had to re-sew a button and turns his head to the left, then to his right, before leaning forward. In the raised side where they're seated, there are men and women a bit younger than them, with approximate costumes and simple skirts. In front of them however, on the seats in front of the scene, he sees the same _bank accountant_ he bumped into in the hall. It's clear that they're currently seated on the cheapest seats. So, why did Sherlock chose them?

"Sherlock?"

"Mh?"

"What are we doing here?"

"We're here to listen to music, John. You know nothing about it because you think music is a side dish like sauce you add to your meat, but do you know there are actually people who, when they're listening to music, do _nothing else_?"

"Okay, first I'm not a complete idiot. Secondly, did you really just compare music to food; _you_? Thirdly, we have the lamest seats. You don't even have space for your legs!"

"The cheapest," corrects Sherlock, his arms still crossed against his chest and his eyes fixed on the empty scene unlike the audience, getting bigger and louder.

John frowns and leans again against the barrier to get a better look of the fluffy seats so far away from them.

"There are still some empty seats, why didn't you buy the..."

The lights switch off gracefully, like a candle flame someone would have blown, and John's eyes open wide. He turns his head and Sherlock does the same. They look at each other and it's useless to count on the lack of luminosity to hide the discreet smile on his face. It's clear that if Sherlock could have paid for the first class seats, John could have never done the same and his pride would have never allowed his friend to pay for him. So here they are, both seated on squeaking folding seats with cushions as soft as stones, but at least, they're seated next to each other. It seems to be enough for Sherlock. At least, it's enough for John.

* * *

><p>When the applauses accompanying the musicians stops and the conductor finishes to salute the audience, there are a few seconds of silence before his arms raise and the first violin starts. The melody is plaintive, the sound husky. John doesn't know Max Bruch so when he's discovering the sound like a child is discovering life, the shivers in his belly prove to him that all of this has a primitive strength he'd be a fool to try to describe. It takes a while for him to realise it's the first time he's in a room that big to listen to musicians this experimented. Even at his age, he still has new things to live. It's without any doubt the best news he had since a long time.<p>

Softly, his eyes quit the scene and slid on the stalls made of first class seats. There's an old man with a trembling hand surrounding a cane, a woman a little bit further who hides her mobile blue-ish screen on which she's typing with her thumb. The further the seats are, the more they are filled - apparently the financial crisis does not only touch the detectives' assistant. He may have to turn his head on his right to admire the scene, however he and Sherlock are closer to the musicians than the people seated in the back of the room. After all, it's not that bad.

"Thank you for not wearing a jumper," murmurs Sherlock, leaned over him.

John smiles and leans too:

"It's not like I had a choice."

"Why, might they have disappeared?"

"Would you have something to do with it?

"It depends, do you have any evidence?"

"You hated them."

"Good, you have a mobile, but do you have evidence?"

"If I go through your bedroom, I think I'll find a few."

"Oh, that would be _adorable_ to see you rummaging about in my cupboards."

John lowers an eyebrow and Sherlock smiles. They look at each other out of the corner of their eyes and jump with surprise when the first _Hush! _resonates far behind them. Seated as far back in the seat as possible like two punished child, they try to contain their laughter and pay attention back to the scene where the first violin, standing next to Denosa, excel in a solo which makes the doctor shiver. Does Sherlock shiver too? Or does he know the tune so well it doesn't touch him anymore? And is Sherlock going to cry, like in March? John is not sure if he would like it to be the case or not.

It's strange actually, it's the first time the ex-soldier is seated next to Sherlock, surrounded by so many people. The brunette has all the music discs of the world, so, why does he come here to listen to something he knows by heart?

"Do you have this CD?" whispers John, leaning over his flatmate again.

"Of course, John."

"Why do you come here to listen to it then? You know you're surrounded by _normal_ people, right?"

"Of course we're surrounded by boring people. But there's something here you can't find in the recording," answers Sherlock, his eyes still fixed on Denosa of whom the gestures become quicker, which means the piece is almost over. "The unexpected," he finally smiles, turning his head to John and it's not really embarrassing if they're so close to each other that the blond man feels the breath of this flatmate against his face, because they have to be as quiet as possible, so it's the only reason why he accepts this proximity, of course.

John smiles. Sherlock not only translated in his own language the word _normal_ in _boring_, but furthermore he said _we_ instead of _I_. The doctor has never been gifted for foreign tongue, but this one, he's starting to really like it.

It takes him still one second before he looks at the scene again, on which the musicians speed up wrists and fingers, the audience's breath being as warm as the notes. The violins hurry and the flutes exhale even stronger than the ex-soldier who puts his elbows on the guardrail, like completely aspirated by this brilliant whirlwind. The apotheosis is cadenced by the cymbals, the bass drum and the conductor's chaotic gesture. The drumroll meddles with John's heartbeat and the last note has the magic force which urges any spectators on to their feet, standing to face to those musician they're applauding until their hands hurt.

With a quick glance on his right, John sees Sherlock on his feet, smiling. Coming here was _definitely_ a good idea.

* * *

><p>After the interval where John treated his thirst by discovering the 33cL water bottle cost £5.50 at the reception's bar, Sherlock and John got back to their seats before the lights died away again.<p>

This time it's Sherlock who leans forward, his bottom barely hanging on the folding seat, his elbows on the guardrail; the reason is Hungarian. In his right hand, John presses a bit tighter the A5 paper where is written the program: _Franz Liszt_, _Les Préludes, Symphonic Poems N°3, S.97. _It's not a tune Sherlock's listening to in Baker Street's living room and John blames him immediately.

The first violins rumble a tender note, soft as a caress. It's not Bruch, it's not an expressive and dancing melody, it's the comings and goings of a wave on a calm sea which cradles the entire audience, almost timidly at first. John couldn't say why, and it's probably very naive, but it seems to him the note has the colours of beginning. It's like a promise. He doesn't know where the melody will take him, but God he's ready to follow it, body and soul. The melody looks like Sherlock, after all.

The percussion instruments join the race. Already gone the naivety, now it's the beauty of a fight Liszt seems to translate. And it's not John Watson who would withdraw on the battlefield. Without realising it, he leans too, presses the leather on his elbows on the barrier and turns his head toward Sherlock, but his flatmate doesn't do the same. The detective keeps his clear eyes on Denosa's soften gestures - and it's easy to see the drop of sweat at the back of his neck. There's no time anymore, not even South or North, it's one of those perfect moment where there's only music left, to their ears, their eyes and their wholly souls. How far away the Bee Gees are with their morbid promise.

"You know I'll follow you every next time you'll go see a concert, right?"

"If you're correctly dressed, I don't see why I would mind."

"Are we really going to spend the evening talking about the way I dress?" smiles John leaned over his flatmate.

"Unless you'd like to talk about the way you undress?"

John bursts out a loud laugh and Sherlock bites his inferior lips to be as quiet as possible, but it seems like it's already too much, as the infuriated whispers around them start again.

"Sherlock, we're going to get chucked out."

"Stop laughing at my jokes then," offers the detective like a challenge, smiling without any shame.

"Excuse me..." speaks a voice behind them." Could you stop gesticulating? I can't see a thing."

John simply waves to apologise to the man a row behind them and immediately shuts up. Sherlock does the same and this time his face doesn't express mischief anymore but concentration. The melody flies away, gets more complicated, the apotheosis is near, the blond man can see it on the tensed hands on the wooden barrier. And it's true it's the best part. Enchanted by the last notes, John holds his breath, nods his head in rhythm without even knowing it. It's so powerful the bass resonates in his body, making his heart beat and his head spin. It's invading all his body and this sensation of letting go, at least for a few seconds, is terribly new. Heady. _Frightening_. There's a weight without shape pressing his chest so he noisily inhales, already ready to apologise for the noise to the audience around him, when Sherlock suddenly gets on his feet.

There's one second of pure confusion, where only two violins and an oboe are still resonating in the odious mutism in which the room is suddenly plunged. The silence is a part of music, but this one is tinted with a deep red, overrunning the scene. John raises in his turn and the scream the harpist shouts out is the starting point of a long series of horrified cries from the first rows.

Sherlock catches his coat and faces the doctor; _now_.

"Let us through!" shouts John, riding awkwardly the legs of the few people still seated on their row. From the corner of his eye, he sees the panicked spectators on the lower floor, getting out as fast as possible in the blocked hallways. In this widespread panic, only a few crazed people are still looking at the musician stuck in the back left right corner of the scene and the screams make the air stifling.

The two men arrive on the lower floor and slalom against the tide between demented men and women who are pushing them without even seeing them. John is not quite sure why they're running at the root of the danger without even thinking about it - anyway, he doesn't have time to turning things over in his head. They finally arrive in front of the scene Sherlock climbs in a graceful gesture while John tries awkwardly to do the same, before coming closer to the musicians they're pushing back summarily.

"I am a doctor, please let me through..."

He doesn't quite know who has been hit or where, but the dark blood in which he's walking makes him realise the worst already happened. Laid down on his back, arms in shape of a cross and his eyes closed, there's a forty years old man. The left side of his face covered in blood. The doctor comes to his knees and leans two fingers on the man's neck but it comes as no surprise, he doesn't feel any pulse. Slightly, he turns the head of the dead man and pinches his lips when he sees the gaping wound right behind his left ear.

"Who moved the body?" shouts out Sherlock, turning on himself.

"He was there and I thought he had a stroke, and..." stutters a trembling man with a face whiter than his shirt.

"In which position was he before you touched him?" asks the detective, facing the man whose stammering incoherent words before collapsing on one of the chairs.

"Sherlock..." calls John, trying to calm down his friend at the same time as his own heart.

"_Idiots_! Does anyone remember in which position he was before the bass player decided to be the useless hero?"

"Sherlock !"

"Is there anyone here in this damn orchestra who is really useful?"

"Sherlock, for the love of God, _shut up_! It's no use, they're in a state of shock. Get in touch with Lestrade..." orders suddenly the doctor, looking daggers at his flatmate, before looking at the stupefied troop. "Don't worry, we're taking care of this."

From the corner of his eye, the blond sees the haughty face of the younger man, pulling out his phone to send a text to the DI before kneeling down next to him, carefully avoiding the blood his leather shoes won't probably like. "Tell me what you know."

"He was shot from a single bullet between the temporal and parietal zone. Killed instantly. The bullet didn't came out. Calibre... I don't know, we'll have to ask Molly."

"Where was he seated?" asks Sherlock raising his nose, as calmly as possible.

"Right here..." answers a man, pointing out an empty seat right behind the body with, only a few centimeters away, a horn covered in blood.

John turns his head to his friend and asks very low:

"Did you hear a detonation?"

"No."

The two flatmates look at each other for a long time and in each other's eyes, they can read the new and obvious anxiety which makes them live. In front of the man killed in the middle of the representation, John breathes out between his slightly opened lips and finally whispers:

"Well Sherlock, you got the unexpected."


	4. The Pub

**Note:** Hey there! Did you know I have a Tumblr (some-cool-name _dot_ tumblr _dot_ com) in which is published today the map of the concert hall. I recommend you to take a look at it, to guide you through this chapter.  
><strong>Beta:<strong> Morwen Maranwe - thank you so very, very much dear!  
><strong>Reviews:<strong> Yes, please :D

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><p>When John Watson looks at the horn player's body as it is put on the stretcher deployed for the occasion, he doesn't even let a heavy breath escape from his slightly open lips. For certain, he should have eatensomething before coming here, because his belly hurts from being empty, yet he's dreaming about a glass of scotch. Only one, to not be caught by the familial malediction.<p>

"Philipp Sherrer, 37 years old, horn player in the orchestra for six years. Single, no children. Lives with two flatmates in Marylebone with a dance teacher and a man we still don't have any detail about," states Lestrade outloud, dispatched on site in less than 20 minutes, looking at the stretcher with the body bag drawing away to the backstage.

"How's the rest of the group?"

"They're starting to realise. The psychology unit has been called."

"Good," answers John, nodding unconsciously, before coming back to himself thanks to his friend's hand, which leans against his shoulder.

"John, what were you doing here?"

"We came to listen to Denosa. Sherlock couldn't stop talking about it, so..."

The DI raises an eyebrow so low John feels so small.

"What?"

"You two? At the _opera_?"

"Greg, that's not..."

"The beginning of a long rumour about you two? Oh yes John, and trust me, it has already begun," smiles the older man, patting his friend's shoulder.

The doctor doesn't even have the time to let the hair on his arm ruffle when the forensic team, accompanied by Sherlock, come to meet them. The brunet is still wearing his coat even though it's not cold and John pertinently knows he's keeping it to differentiate himself from the rest of the inspectors around him. The ex-soldier doesn't really know why this coat has a space so big, but when Sherlock puts it on, the mouths go silent and the eyes open wide. It's like a super hero costume and even if the detective has nothing to do with Batman, at least they share the sense of the dramatization and they both provoke snobby fear. It's both completely ridiculous and totally effective.

"Sherrer was seated here," indicates one of the policemen, pointing a finger to an empty chair with only a small yellow sign with a _2_ on it. "The bullet pierced the left rear side of his skull. According to the angle, the shooter was seated behind him, in the seats up there."

The agent gives a paper to the detective consultant, which he barely looks at, before giving it to John who almost puts his nose against it.

"In yellow, we and the ballistics' team highlighted the seats from where the shot might have been fired; seats 43, 44A, 43, 42B, 43, 42, 41 C or 37, 38 D."

"And the two hearts here, what is that supposed to mean?" asks John, putting his forefinger on two read hearts on the left side of the paper.

He raises his nose, quickly tries to find the spots they match with and sights when he finds the seats where his flatmate and he were settled. Lestrade and his agents burst out a loud laugh but Sherlock continues, seeming like he didn't even hear them:

"So, nine suspects. Do we have the names on the reservations?"

"That's useless, the shooter must be on a plane for Chili right now..." tries John, but no one seems to pay attention to him.

Instead, they all turn around when a young man jogs toward them before talking to the DI.

"We asked for the names at the reception desk sir, we should have them in under 48 hours. And sir, the spectators who stayed are waiting outside to be interrogated, sir."

"Sherlock?" asks Lestrade, turning toward the called on, who is already buttoning up his coat.

"Was one of them seated behind the orchestra?"

"No Mr. Holmes."

"If I didn't see anything, there's no reason those idiots saw something. Send them back home."

"Sherlock...", calls John with a muffled voice.

It takes a few seconds for the detective to understand he's being called to order, so he politely smiles to apologise and continues:

"If I didn't see anything, there's no reason those idiots saw something. Send them back home _please_."

John and Gregory raise their eyes so high in their orbits, Sherlock can only hope their eyeballs will make a complete turn on themselves and finally find the brains they've been ignoring for so long. The brunet doesn't wait a minute more and, with a gesture ridiculously way too sophisticated, he jumps off the stage and walks to the exit. John shakes the DI's hand, greets the rest of the agents and quickly catches up to his flatmate.

"Sherlock !" calls Lestrade, raising his voice. "Before we find the people who were seated in those damn seats, I'm prohibiting you to talk about the murder at Molly's birthday tomorrow, are we clear?"

The detective does a hazy gesture above his shoulder with his hand and pushes the swing doors by which he makes John goes before him.

"You heard him Sherlock, we're not going to talk about the case at Molly's birthday. The last time she invited us for her house-warming party, you made her grandma faint with your amputations stories."

"She asked me about what I was working on."

"But she didn't ask for details."

"People are never satisfied."

John raises an eyebrow and stops in the middle of the hallway covered with a red and soft carpet, obliging Sherlock to do the same before rolling his eyes with a weary face.

"All right, John, I won't talk about the dead horn player at the party."

The doctor smiles and resumes his walk, leaving the detective sighing out loud.

"Even if I have no idea of what we will talk about..."

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><p>As soon as John turns around, his hands occupied by two fresh Camden Hells he just paid for, he smiles, looking at the back table reserved by Molly. It's not really surprising, but when the young coroner invited Sherlock and him to this pub in South London, he thought they'd end up in an annoying party with four people tops. He couldn't be more wrong. In front of the fifteen or so noisy friends who are recalling some kind of a frisbee match which provokes hysterical laughter out of Molly and her cousin, he pinches his lips and gets closer to the table that is the least lively of the evening; naturally, it's Sherlock's table.<p>

Molly had insisted over the telephone that the party was casual, but it seems like all Sherlock Holmes can do when it comes to coolness is a bespoken suit and a dark blue shirt. Maybe it's to compensate for it that John put on a simple white one.

The doctor gets close to the table where the detective's fingers frenetically tap, in front of the coroner's new boyfriend. The guy is named Andy Kerwell and he shook Sherlock's hand with such conviction that John immediately hated him. The blond man puts the two beers next to his flatmate's elbow and takes his place before hearing the voice full of sarcasm:

"So, you're a florist?"

"Botanist," corrects the young man, scratching nervously behind his ear as if he were passing an interview for a job.

"Did you hear that, John? The man takes care of flowers," smiles Sherlock to his friend, who's already rolling his eyes.

"Not _e-ve-ry_ flower of course, I'm more specialised in wild flowers. I work very close, at the Greenwich park and today we received a new kind of _Althaea officinalis_, we'll plant them next week. You should come to see me one day, that would be _fa-bu-lous_," answers Andy, his hands clasped and his eyes bright with excitement.

"He's gay," concludes Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, and John nearly suffocates on his beer.

"I beg your pardon?" asks the botanist, who leans forward to hear the detective better; with the loud music around them, it's so easy to get misunderstood.

"_Yes, okay_," answers John, raising his voice to correct his flatmate's words. "He said, _yes, okay_."

"Andy, come dance with me!" Molly suddenly calls, catching her lover's arm before looking at Sherlock and John, who are holding onto their seats as if they were holding on to life. "Should I even suggest you come to dance with us?"

"Never ever," responds Sherlock, whose voice is still half covered by the deafening music - his better ally tonight.

"_Maybe later_," corrects John, smiling at Molly who salutes them before going back to the dance floor.

Sherlock very ironically smiles one second more before relaxing his face muscles. On the bench where he's seated, he crosses his legs and puts his elbows on the table before catching one of the two beers John brought back and inspecting it meticulously:

"That's not what I ordered," he curses.

"Of course not, but as they had no barbiturates at the bar, I took what looked the most like it."

"Can I at least drown in my glass?"

"I only live to see you try."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, not really impressed by his friend's repartee, and lets him clink their drinks together - which has probably a great meaning for the doctor but which leaves impassible the detective - before they both bring their glasses to their lips.

"So that's beer. Not bad," concludes the brunet with a surprised face.

"So you are, after all..."

"Human?"

"_British._"

"Funny," he smiles ironically before looking away again.

John's glass is rapidly empty and maybe it's the good atmosphere, the exceptional weather, or the fact he already drank four beers, but tonight he wants to talk. Unless it's because of Sherrer's murder. John clearly remembers when he came back from Afghanistan, when life at Harry's was scaring him as much as it was calm. He would have given anything to have a bit of animation, adrenaline or a reason to live. Now, a simple walk to the opera and he comes home with a head full of images of a man whose skull has been pierced. For sure, he doesn't lack action anymore.

The songs come one after another in the pub and Sherlock and John are still the only ones seated in their corner, drinking a beer which is getting warmer between their fingers. For sure, it's not how they usually spend their Friday evenings and everything in their attitudes scream awkwardness. John tells himself they can leave early and with the clement weather, they can walk a bit before getting on the tube. It still takes a few minutes of silence between the two of them - but two minutes of intense chaotic cacophony in the pub - before John decides to seriously propose to his flatmate to move. He raises his head, slightly opens his lips, but Sherlock seems so focused on the dance floor that he closes them right away.

Holmes sometimes has this gaze so intense that all his body looks like a microscope. He's only coldness and analysis and during those times, even his skin seems so white that John holds himself back from putting a blanket on his shoulder. Tonight's different of course, because it's so hot in here they both lift up their sleeves. It's the result of the mix of alcohol, the proximity of all those people and this weird October month where no one would dare to wear a jacket. With the heat, Sherlock's hair is quite a mess. The darkness of the wet curl on his pale neck reminds John of his first teenage parties, first drinks and contradictory sentiments, and the ephemeral impression of being invincible because you're 16. John would like to ask Sherlock to tell him about his parties as a young man, but Sherlock is still looking at the dance floor as if it is a murder scene - which is a bit the case, given Andy's moves - so, John leans closer and speaks loud enough to be sure to be heard:

"What are you looking at?"

"Mh?"

"You've been looking at Molly's friends for an eternity... is there a problem?"

"Ah, no, no problem at all. It's hot in here, don't you think?"

"Yes, I heard on the radio it hasn't been this hot since October 1891..." answers John, tightening his hand around his beer.

"So, why would anyone wear a polo-neck?"

John frowns his eyebrows but Sherlock is still not looking at him. In his blithe posture, there are only his eyes which seem awake, fixed on an uncertain point among the dancing bodies that are moving slower, to the rhythm of the new song. The older man turns around, puts his elbow on the back of the chair and observes. On the dance floor, it's a mix of laughter, alcohol and shoulders pressed one against another, but in the middle, arms in the air and the hips waving, there's a young mixed race woman, with hair dark as the night tied in a ponytail and big brown eyes, who is wearing a turtle neck. By standing beside the sleeveless t-shirt and estival dresses, everyone is looking at her. By moving her hips that way, _John_ is looking at her.

"She's sensitive to the cold," tries John without even blinking.

"Impossible, she moves way too much."

"Maybe it's trendy."

"In 2014? Really?" says Sherlock with irony.

"She's hiding something then."

And this time, given Sherlock's smile, he knows he's on the right track. They look at each other a second more and on the small table where their elbows are touching, they lean forward before starting a deduction game John is planning to succeed at this time. It's not an Olympic game where laws are clear and respected, there's no referee to kick off the drive, it's only a backstabbing and merciless sparring match.

"No ring. Spinster," starts John, fixing on the hand of their target who is dancing in some oriental gestures.

"Sophisticated make-up: seducer," adds Sherlock without letting his flatmate finish his sentence.

"Was the last one to arrive at the party. She lives far away."

"High heels. She came here in a cab: rich."

"Blackberry always near her, dark rings under her eyes visible despite the make-up... She has a job with high responsibilities. Give up now, Sherlock, I'll resolve this before you," smiles John, leaning forward without knowing it.

And maybe it's because of the lady's perfectly managed hip movements but John feels subjugated, aspirated. She doesn't see him, for sure she doesn't even know he exists, but there's something about her that attracts him like a hook that's gotten under his skin and that he knows would get him out of the calm and gentle water that he's hiding in. Little by little, the pub disappears; the coarse laughs, the alcohol and sweat, until there's only the woman and her hips left. She moves and moves again, hypnotises the doctor and it makes him want to see more. It's not sexual, it's not her body he wants to discover, but what she's_ hiding_. No one moves like that, watches like that, _lives_ like that. She seems above everything and everyone with an astounding simplicity and John is jealous. It's not worth it to try to hide himself behind other words, he's drunk anyway.

"She wearing a polo-neck to hide a collar," concludes Sherlock, finishing his beer.

The blond man explodes in laughter - the younger man can say whatever he wants but his lack of knowledge about the female tribe is definitely ridiculous.

"Okay, you lost..."

"I lost, John?" ask the detective, slightly turning his head to face him.

"Why would she bother to wear a jumper that hot to hide a cervical collar? Plus, did you see the way she moves her head? That doesn't make any sense."

"Oh, no, not a cervical a collar; a leather collar, John."

Sherlock's smile is so soft and confident, the older man has the nasty impression he's the one who lost, without even knowing why. He shakes his head, slightly opens his lips to say something but nothing comes out, so Sherlock starts again:

"Or strangulation marks."

"She would have been attacked before coming here? But she has her purse and no wounds, plus she seems just... happy."

"She must have been consenting then."

And while Sherlock's smile is softer, the deafening sound of the pub seems to deaden slowly and John comes closer to his friend. There's something weird, all the joy of the last instants seems to be on pause and left behind it an emptiness to which John would like to give a name.

"Her partner must have used his hands, marks are more visible and deeper, otherwise she would have put on a simple foulard. That would explain why she got here late."

"Wait, wait... what are you talking about?" asks John, leaning toward the brunet, his eyebrows so frowned his head hurts - unless it's because of the cheap beer.

"You never heard of it?"

"Never hear of what?"

"BDSM, John Watson."

The emptiness suddenly fills up and the ex-soldier doesn't need to find its name; it's here, big and imposing, flickering before his eyes, in his head and his chest tightens. It's the shock, no more, no less.

"I don't..." starts John, his cheeks as red as he's uncomfortable, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice him as he's already turned his head to look at the young woman again.

"Some people find pleasure in loss of control, domination or pain, sometimes. Of course, it's frowned upon by society, hence, the members of these kinds of relationships are extremely discreet. So sometimes, a polo-neck is enough."

It's not only shock, it's also a monumental slap. There's also a certain discomfort which pins down John, because not only has he never, oh never, talked about sexuality with Sherlock Holmes, he's talked even less about BDSM. He slightly opens his lips, searches for something that he can say in the ocean of words like_ Holy Mother of God_ and _What the hell, Sherlock?!_ that are wandering in his damn skull, but he's quickly stopped by a voice as soft as a breeze.

"Good evening Sherlock."

"Elisa!" smiles the called one before getting up on his feet and kissing the woman with the polo-neck on the cheek.

"So, you know Molly."

"We work together, sometimes. What about you?"

"We were together in college. It's great to see you, it's been a while."

"Yes it is."

"Would you like to have a drink?"

"Sure, I'll join you," she warmly smiles the detective.

John looks at the young woman disappearing to the bar and is beaten by the vision of Sherlock catching his empty drink, ready to leave.

"Sherlock, wait, do you know her?" he asks, grabbing his flatmate's arm. He's squeezing a little bit harder than he wished. "How do you know that? How do you know that she's into that stuff? Sherlock do you... _do you do those things_?"

They're so close it's evident to both of them that whatever Sherlock answers, he'll not be able to lie, so he shouldn't even try. John scrutinises his eyes—which are as clear as his genius is dark—his expressionless lips and his whole face to find the lesser twitch, the smallest shudder, but it's not an out of control muscle which betrays the detective. It's his smile, so frank and so honest that it's as painful as a fist against the ex-soldier's ribs. He's looking John straight in the eye, with no other look on his face except a smile that can only mean one thing. So it's John who quietly releases his arm and clenches his fingers where blood forgot to go for a few seconds.

Sherlock doesn't even turn around, he just disappears between the dancers in a morbid silence where all the unsaid things and the questions between them seem to be so heavy that it's John's respiration, short and oppressive, which suffers the consequences.

Because Sherlock Holmes didn't have to open his lips, but just stretch them to answer, and it was very clear to John Watson.

_Yes_.


	5. The Flat

**Note:** Hey y'all! Here's the new chapter of SBSQ, I hope you'll like it. Don't hesitate in giving me your impressions, I'd love to have feedback on this story :). Also, I'm currently looking for a translator, capable to translate from FRENCH to ENGLISH. If you'd be interested, please send me a PM!  
><strong>Bêta:<strong> the amazing **Morwen Maranwe**. Thank you so very much dear, I couldn't do it without you!

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><p>Stretched out on his uncomfortable bed, hands resting behind his neck, John's eyes fix a ceiling which is moving no more than he is. It's not even 8 o'clock but it's already so warm in this room which smells like sugar and almond, because Mrs. Hudson never took care of the bad ventilation between her kitchen and the rest of the building. However, he woke up ten minutes ago (unless it was half-an-hour ago?) to partially open the window overlooking the quiet street on this Friday morning.<p>

The heat, it's the main subject right now, and for a nation hit by a low unemployment rate in a Europe in crisis, it's perfectly stupid. Between the small crackling radio in the kitchen and the free newspapers John is able to read in the underground, he learns theories more or less plausible about these historical temperatures. "An anticyclone coming down from the South" says the _WRN Broadcast_. "The worrying melting ice; how many deaths from now to 2016?" announces _The Sun _with a typography that is thick and vulgar. "Gay marriage and its disastrous consequences: how God plans to make society pay for this" he read once on a blog with gaudy colors and a content as questionable as the sweet and sour sauce in the cupboard above the sink that has been there since July.

John has never really quite understood this typical human need to transform every element into a drama without any shape or way-out. As if the totally precarious status of every human being on Earth isn't a burden hard enough to bear already, there has to be _BBC_, _Channel 4_ and _The Daily Telegraph _jumping from one serious case to another, hitting where it hurts and instituting a climate of perpetual fear where it's getting harder to move forward. However, John is convinced there should be things in life that are impossible to put in doubt, or demonise; elements on which it should be inconceivable to make money by creating an irrational terror. Like a good old cup of tea, warm and sweet, without any shady preservatives. Or a Harry Potter movie, without any absurd scandal about which actors drink or smoke weed. Or a polo-neck jumper.

_A polo-neck jumper._

John inhales and twists on the mattress where his body sinks further down, his eyelids shuddering and his fingers getting tense. The night before, he didn't stay alone and dazed more than 10 minutes before Molly came to get him. He then helped her make Andy - as a perfect British man, drunk and slumped on a bench- walk to a cab, then he went with them to the coroner's flat on Trinity Street before carrying the florist to the couch. Certainly something no one would have done besides him, least of all the man who is supposed to be his best friend, who came back to Baker Street exactly 47 minutes after him.

47 minutes during which so much could have happened. How much can he hate Sherlock Holmes and his way of turning the simplest of sweaters into an obsession of which the ex-soldier would have to avoid? Because even if it's only a piece of fabric - perfectly belted on a curved body, of course - since Sherlock left the table and followed that Elisa, it's become so much _more_.

It's a question mark, an oasis made of troubled and dangerous water, a promise and a trap at the same time. It's a door through which the detective escaped without expressing anything but a smile. A door he hasn't completely closed and which John is scrutinising the small opening fiercely. He could open it, just a bit more, finally learn what Sherlock hides with all the turtlenecks he has crossed in his life. He could ask him. _He could_...

He has to leave it closed. With one jump he gets up and leaves the sheets still wearing his scent, which he doesn't recognise anymore, and opens the door - the only one he has the right to touch the handle of - before going down to the kitchen.

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><p>"So, Mrs. Perkins gave me her till receipt, and as I told her, she went to the pharmacy to order the adhesive for her dentures on Thursday and not on Tuesday. Bad thing, old age is -makes you lose your mind."<p>

"Mrs. Hudson..."

"Ah yes, yes, here's your mail."

John discreetly rolls his eyes and sits at the kitchen table, an elbow pressed against his steaming cup, he stretches his right hand and catches the white envelops given to him by his landlady. Every time the woman comes up to bring them their mail, it's the same tune, a cheerful "Hello" escapes from their lips before the neighborhood seniors' news is explained to him down to the smallest private detail. John now has to share his breakfast with Mr. Jenssen's phlebitis, the alarming short-sightedness of Mrs. Blank and from now on, Mrs. Perkins' dangling dentures.

With a nod, he salutes his landlady, who goes down the creaking stairway and quickly separates envelops with his name and those intended for his flatmate. Noise from the back room makes him raise his nose; a glance at his watch and he stands up on his feet. Sherlock likes to drink his tea boiling hot, so the doctor fills the kettle. The familiar sound of the turned door handle and footsteps on the old parquet tells him his friend has just come out of his room and gone into the bathroom. He hears the sound of running water, imagines his friend washing his hands or putting a bit of cold water on his face, on this morning which is as hot as their tea. He's pretty proud he doesn't think about the awkwardness born between them the night before. Beer and deafening noise had to be the cause of John's embarrassment, but both of them are adults, so it's best to move on. John will no longer think of Elisa and it's as simple as that.

"Good morning."

"Hello there," answers John, turning to his friend to give him his cup, with extra sugar and a smile on this lovely morning, and for the first time today, their eyes meet.

_A polo-neck jumper._

"Lestrade sent me Sherrer's address. He'll be over there at 10."

_You never heard of BDSM, John Watson?_

"John?"

"Hm?", finally gives off the ex-soldier's throat, who summarily shakes his head.

"Problem?"

"Nope. So, we meet with Lestrade at 10 at Sherrrer's place, okay, fine, always a great pleasure to search a dead man's house."

"He has two flatmates pretty alive, if it is any consolation... in any way," adds the detective, doing a vague gesture with his left hand.

John half smiles and Sherlock drinks his tea, the steam getting lost in his dark curls hanging over his forehead, eyes closed, a hand resting on his right hip. There's just the noise of the _Boris Bike_ station construction invading 221B while the two men finish their breakfast in front of the mail they're meticulously opening.

"Is everything all right, John?" asks the detective neutrally.

"Everything is fine, Sherlock," answers his friend, with a voice just as fake.

* * *

><p>At the corner of Blandford Street, there's a small café painted in a sapphire blue. On the front window, there's an A4 page, soberly framed, which the owner is cleaning with a small duster. Of course, the road hasn't been blocked, but with the three police cars parked on the pavement, the residents are slowing down, taking off one earpiece and trying to catch sight of the reason for the sudden police invasion. There are two officers in front of the black front door that John is crossing before following Sherlock up the building's stairway. They stop on the second floor where the right door is already opened.<p>

Sherrer's flat is an astonishing mix of a life with roommates - as evidenced by the living-room furniture's disparity - yet perfectly tidied up and clear; in short, the only proof the tenants are all responsible adults. Compared to Baker Street's state, John is a little bit ashamed.

"Lestrade," salutes Sherlock, eyes scanning the room around them.

"Right on time," smiles the DI before shaking John's hand, as Sherlock's are deeply anchored into his pockets.

"Where are the flatmates?"

"In the kitchen. We're interrogating them. And before you ask, the night Sherrer died, the girl was at some kind of performance on the other side of town and the guy was in Belgium."

"Bedroom?"

"Down the hall."

The detective nods briefly and goes to the bedroom with John. The room is quite big and, just as the living-room, it's an example in regards to tidying up. The bed doesn't have a fold - which John's forehead is automatically jealous of - the drawer is cluttered with partitions of which are exceeding yellow and pink Post-its and on the left, next to the wooden desk, there's a broken music stand with a felt hat on top of it that looks kind of ludicrous.

"Sherlock, did you see the..."

"Pictures of Sherrer disguised on the occasion of theatrical shows? Inevitable."

The doctor takes one of the frames to inspect it. In the center of the picture, hands join with others, he recognises the man of whom he saw the brain, and seeing him now smiling under the spotlight is a vision way more joyful. Sherrer is a bit younger, unless the make-up makes him look so. He has a crown made of fake leaves and a beige suit on which small branch has been sewn - which seems very unpleasant to wear. All around John there are about twenty pictures, some of them taking place backstage, all centered on Philipp Sherrer, sometimes dressed up to a point where he's unrecognisable.

"There's no pictures of him as a musician."

"Come and help me, John," calls Sherlock, and right away the ex-soldier kneels next to his friend to help him take out a dark wooden crate from under the bed. "Predictable."

The two men look at each other and Sherlock smiles before pressing his two thumbs on the small metal end cap. He's so slow lifting up the lid John's heart starts beating uncomfortably. They never know what they'll end up finding. In more than a year spent beside him, there has been over one hundred instances where the doctor has seen Sherlock getting on his knees next to a bed before taking out a box from underneath, in which people have hidden their secrets; from the embarrassing picture of an ex they want to forget to human organs - that _John_ wants to forget. He holds his breath and Sherlock, losing patience, opens the lid in one go.

"Clothes," curses the younger man, who seems terribly disappointed by this discovery - but John remembers seeing him dancing with joy when they found the livers in a Vuitton suitcase when they were working on the corrupted doctor case, so he's no reference.

"Costumes," rectifies John, pulling out meticulously a few wigs and fancy dresses awkwardly. "We never investigated a comedian's murder."

"A pathetic comedian," adds Sherlock without mercy before getting up on his feet and dusting his knees with a disdainful look. "I did research on the Internet. Sherrer has been in several lower-end shows. For the posterity, it's better to remember him as a musician from the London orchestra."

John smiles more than he would like to and follows Sherlock to the kitchen where Lestrade, standing next to the table, interrogates the flatmates. The young woman, Marina Jones, is seated on a plastic chair and her long uncovered legs are sufficient to prove to the whole room she's indeed a dancer. The elegance of her body is sculpted by her visible muscles on her milky skin and the tight bun above her neck is so well done it symbolises years of classical dancing training. Her wool dress has black and purple geometrical forms that she seems to have found in a second-hand shop.

Sitting in front of her is a man with really small brown and grey curls garnishing his thick head, illuminated by two blue, small, watery pupils. He's so large he seems to not be at ease on the small chair. His podgy fingers are pressing awkwardly on the table in the center of the room and the untimely sniffling makes him look like a big child.

"Bill Hendrik?" calls Sherlock after glancing at the notebook shown by Lestrade.

"Yes?" answers the called one, lifting up his red nose - colored by too much wiping.

"You have jam on your sleeve."

His small eyes go wide open before he looks at his flatmate, who seems as astonished as him in a dumbfounded manner. In the kitchen, the atmosphere is so embarrassing John can readily recognise the fragrance Holmes spreads every time he talks in public.

"How is the Nutcracker tour going?" suddenly asks the detective, facing the young woman.

"Well, yes, yes it's going great. We've been in London since Monday and we're leaving for Belgium in three days."

"That's why I was over there," says Hendrik all of a sudden, raising his finger like a student who wants to take the floor. "I am a head carpenter for the company and we were preparing the stage in Brussels when I heard about... Philipp."

"How did you meet him?"

"Seven years ago I was working for a modest production of A Midsummer Night's dream, and Philipp was playing in it," answers Bill, analysed by the other three men in the room. "We stayed in contact and then four... no, three years ago, Marina and I were searching for a new flatmate so I gave him a call and... well, he came right away."

"Nice place," tells John without thinking, nodding his head.

"Yeah, Philipp was paying a little more than us... They have a good salary at the London's Orchestra. As a result he got the bigger room."

"Philipp was a good man, indeed," answers Sherlock very seriously. "We cannot help wondering how this flat is going to survive without him - because it's clear with you always traveling all around Europe and you, incapable of even protecting yourself from getting jam all over your shirt, that you are not responsible for the perfect running of this flat."

The flatmates lower their eyes, slightly ashamed, and John can see in Sherlock's tense attitude the young man understands his sociopathy has taken over again.

"But that's okay," he begins again. "You should see the state of the flat where John and I are living, let me tell you, our landlady made copies of the deposit check."

"As flatmates," quickly corrects John, who feels compelled to say something, a hand raised to be sure to catch everybody's attention in the room. "We live together, _as flatmates_."

Lestrade sighs out loud and gets closer to the table to make Jones and Hendrik sign their deposition, and the doctor just has time to turn his head before glimpsing Sherlock's amused smile overlooking him.

"Sherlock, if you have any other questions..." proposes the DI.

"I'm done here," he answers before leaving the kitchen and disappearing into the hallway.

"He's right, Marina, Philipp was the nut one about cleaning everything. Without him, this place is going to be such a mess..." sighs Bill before bursting in tears - the alarm signaling it's time to leave.

John nods at Gregory and the two flatmates before quickening his pace to catch up with Sherlock in the sun-kissed street.

"You did that on purpose," grimaces the ex-soldier, short on breath and eyes half-shut because of the luminosity.

"What are you talking about, John?"

"To talk about the state of their flat. It had nothing to do with the case, you just wanted to tell them we were living together."

Sherlock unbuttons his suit jacket vest and gives away a delighted smile which provokes the doctor right the opposite.

"Damn, Sherlock it's not funny! It's like the heart Lestrade drew on the plan, in place of seats 14 and 15W; _our_ seats. And you're not saying anything!"

"And it's obvious that _you_, you say something... But of course, you are like that."

"Wait, what does that mean?" asks John, stopping in the middle of the street, a hand resting on his forehead to protect himself from the sun.

Sherlock stops a few steps after, seems to sigh by the sight of his shoulders going down, and turns around before getting closer to John. He harpoons with his gaze he barely wrinkle despite the luminosity.

"You do not accept things that escape at your control, John."

The doctor scowls, searches his friend's face for the grin which will make him realise it's a joke, but _nothing_.

"I don't see why..."

"Why am I telling you this? I observed you and _you are_ like this. You're incapable of letting someone else have control."

"Okay, if it's a joke because of what happened yesterday with Elisa, it's really lame."

"And what happened yesterday with Elisa?"

"I don't have any issue with... control," the ex-soldier feels obliged to say, not answering his flatmate.

"Do not get defensive, it's not a critique."

"I am not getting defensive!" John shouts, making the two teenagers passing next to them jump with surprise before apologising with a polite smile and putting his severe mask back on.

He barely has time to open his lips again before Sherlock takes a step forward and they're so close the tip of their shoes touch and Sherlock's head is enough to prevent John's face from getting hit by the sun.

"You can remove your hand," calls the detective neutrally, but John firmly keeps his fingers pressed to his forehead like a visor.

"Why?"

"Because I'm protecting you from the sun."

"... No, it's all right, I don't mind."

"And because I _asked you to_."

The doctor's eyes open wide under the surprise and his hand falters for one second before holding on to his face more firmly. Sherlock's way too close and there's way too many people around them, it's so troubling John wants to jump backwards, but he won't do that to please him. They glare at one another intensely, fighting each other with their gazes, a silent battle to see who will back down first. John doesn't move at all, both of his feet planted firmly on the ground, as if they are anchored in quick sand.

"What are you playing at, Sherlock ?" he exhales in a husky breath.

"You are so brave, John Watson."

Sherlock still looks at him for a few seconds, without any expression on his shaded face, before detaching himself from the body he leaves behind. With a pace as slow as it is confident, he crosses the deserted road where John feels so lonely that everything seems a bit wobbly. It's every particle of his body which seems to awaken at the sound of this word, everything in his person and everything that makes him who he is; a proud man, an ex-soldier, and a doctor. Of course he's brave, he has always been so and it has never been an option. So, left alone on the pavement, in the obscene silence buzzing in his ears, John wonders why, whispered by Sherlock's lips, it sounded so fake.


	6. The Car Park

**Note:** Extra thanks for my lovely beta **Morwen Maranwe** who is doing an amazing job. Thank you doll, I adore you! 

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><p>"Craig Jennings, Anna Sanchez, Shery and Angie Walsh, Doris and Benjamin Cox, and finally, Jared Steele," presents Lestrade by throwing the file on his desk which John hastens to open.<p>

Sherlock, standing next to the window, scrutinizes an indistinct point in the street, which is undoubtedly highly interesting seeing as he didn't even deign to turn his head when Gregory's assistant came to greet them. In the folder, which John reads scrupulously, there are photocopies of the reserved seats with the names stated by the DI and some quite terribly sad passport photos. Not as if anybody had ever looked good in a passport photo.

"We questioned them this week. Of course, nobody saw a thing; no weapon, either. In short, we are at a standstill. The ballistics' report cannot help us more. According to if Sherrer was reading the score or was following Denosa, the inclination of his head doesn't allow us to establish exactly where the shot was fired from. Of course, all the suspects remain under surveillance and can't leave the country, but if you could take care of that quickly, that would help us a lot - with _The Sun_ getting involved in it, this story is becoming a heap of shit... Sherlock, for God's sake, are you listening to me?" the cop suddenly asks, losing his temper, passing a hand over his weary face.

The brown haired man hardly looks over his shoulder but deigns to move his lips to answer with a, "More or less," which makes the DI's eyes raise toward the heaven.

"John, did you at least listen to me?"

"Yes, yes, of course. We are going to question the first suspect this morning and we'll inform you."

"I knew that I could count on you. Well, on you, John, in particular."

The doctor smiles, following the example of his friend, and gets up to shake his hand, his left firmly attached to the file.

"Sherlock?" John calls up by opening the door, and suddenly the detective leaves the window to pass in front of the DI, smiling.

"Nice car, Lestrade. A Ford Focus, if I am not mistaken?"

"Well, thank you," smiles Gregory, who takes advantage of this unique chance to receive a compliment from this brat he's taken care of for a few years now. "That's right, how do you know that?"

"It just got impounded. Good day!"

The detective escapes through the door held open by his friend, whom he pushes by the shoulders to press him into the staircase and bring them to the farthest possible distance of the DI's shouts, who curses with insults so full of imagery that John's eyebrows jump with surprise.

"Remind me, how long have you know each other?"

"Is it really important?" asks Sherlock once on the pavement, already catching the file held by his friend to inspect the address of the first suspect.

"I need to know the exact date to register your friendship in the _Guinness book of World Records_."

"I do not see why our relationship is _so_ extraordinary."

"He has not killed you in your sleep yet. It is very impressive, you know," answers John, getting back the file which the detective puts against his chest.

"Who says he has never tried?" smiles Sherlock, and this time the doctor can only do the same.

With quick steps, they cross the road where cars and cycles slalom, rarer in this November which begins to finally cool, and go down Great Smith Street, their noses raised to inspect the streets' name.

"We begin with Craig Jennings, then?"

"He works at Stanford & Wells, it is two steps away."

"Stanford & Wells? Well, shit. I hate it when we have to question lawyers, they always find a way to get by without answering any of our questions."

Five minutes is enough for them to reach number 4 Dean Bradley Street; the building which they enter is of neo-classic inspiration, nevertheless, completely recent. Leaned on the reception desk, John lets Sherlock present them to a young woman in a blue dress who tells them to follow her. She doesn't seem more surprised than that to see them and doesn't even bring out the traditional phony excuse of, "Mister Jennings is not available at the moment, may I take a message?" Maybe her boss expressly told her that she could bring him every person relative to the investigation, but the fact remains that this proof of accessibility shows the doctor that the lawyer is nicer than John thought.

They walk for a long time in endless corridors, with walls covered by not-really-pretty abstract paintings which the ex-soldier would never see hanging on Baker Street's walls. They meet men as beautifully dressed as Sherlock, and John once again doesn't take offence at his own completely human appearance. The young woman has to swipe her badge three times to take them through doors which make them sink always deeper into the building, and when the distant smell of gasoline tickles the nostrils of both men, they look and finally understand: the car park.

The secretary pushes a heavy door open and points with her index finger to one of the rare sedans parked at the bottom of the immense room.

"You will find Mister Jennings over there," she informs them before backtracking.

Both friends look at each other, frown slightly, and approach the car of which the bonnet is opened, hiding an unstable shape which seems to dance on the sizzling air that comes out of the radio.

"Craig Jennings?" asks John, incredulous.

The bonnet closes and the face of a young man comes to light, around thirty years old, with short dark hair and two big eyes made of a hot brown which are looking alternately on both newcomers. The man wears very sober black pants and a shapeless white T-shirt, made dirty by the grease which has invaded up to his hands, which he wipes against a grey rag.

"Yeah, it's me. Can I help you?"

"We're to ask you some questions concerning the concert at the Royal Hall Festival," answers Sherlock, eyes wrinkled, precisely deciphering the man in front of them.

"I am John Watson and this is the detective Sherlock Holmes," the blond is obliged to specify by pointing at his friend, before starting again. "It won't take long, could we go to your office?"

"Hem, yes, of course, well I work here actually," says the man, with a saddened smile.

"_Here_?" John wonders by raising an eyebrow.

"He is a driver, John," smiles Sherlock, not dissatisfied to be able to calm down the doctor's enthusiasm and his visceral hatred of lawyers.

The blond coughs briefly, shakes his head one time, and crosses his hands behind his back, an unconscious gesture which proves he hands over the reins to Sherlock, who advances a step to scrutinise their first suspect.

"Mister Jennings, you were at the concert on Wednesday, in a seat which was well, completely respectable. Thus, it must have been a present from your employer. You did not leave at the interlude and, nevertheless, it is clear that Liszt is not your favorite composer, considering the contemporary music which you're listening to right now. Why, then, did you go to this concert if, clearly, you fell asleep over there? "

"I have a..."

Sherlock raises a hand which he imposes in front of the young man's face that silences him immediately, and John approaches to reassure him with a half-smile.

"Don't worry it is his _natural_ way to work."

"I shouldn't say anything, then?"

"You've never heard about Sherlock Holmes?" John cannot refrain from asking with a small chuckle always totally bewildered to meet people like him.

"Of course he has never heard about me, he does not read newspapers - except those that tell of sports or automobile events. He is trying to become enlightened, judging from the fact that he accepted the tickets his boss didn't want. New relationship? No, seen the state of your teeth and the rest of kebab which is lying on your seat; it is obvious that you do not take care of yourself to please others. Searching for a new job? Who would hire you..." Sherlock laughs before starting again more seriously, "Your ring finger still carries the mark - slightly visible, I admit - of a wedding ring... Divorced, then. Oh, that's _it_. You're divorced and you lost, lost what, the house? No, in your file it is indicated that you live near London Bridge, very good district. There is something, something which obliges you to regain control of yourself, something which..."

"Your child," interrupts John with a quiet voice.

Jennings shakes his head with difficulty by pushing his rag into his back pocket before leaning against the bonnet of the sedan.

"His name is Tim, and he's six years old. It's been a year since his mum and me divorced, even though it's been years since I've been able to stand her. I don't give a damn 'bout her, she can bleed me all my cash or the flat my mum left me, but I _need_ to get my son back. He don't feel good with her, y' know? Eleonora, she shouts all the time and since she started datin' her cook, she takes even less care of Tim. He has to stay in remedial courses till 19 hours even though she don't work, and I told the judge that I could take care of Tim at the end of school, my boss agrees, but the judge said no. She had a better lawyer than me. They said I were stupid and that I wouldn't know how to take care of the kid. I want to show 'em that I'm not dumb. This is why I looked for a job here. Mister Stanford, he's kind and even if I'll never have the money to pay him, I want to do a good job for him so that he'll agree to help to get Tim back."

Listening to his gut, John approaches to prevent Sherlock from saying something that will hurt this broken father with sad eyes and smiles at him.

"We are sorry... But we didn't come to speak about that. I know that you have already spoken to the police concerning the evening and that you had told them that you saw nothing, but the slightest detail can help us. Please, think carefully..."

"Well, as Mr. Holmes said, I slept and it's when all these people began shouting that I woke up."

"All right, people began to shout and what did you see?" intervenes Sherlock, nevertheless with a quiet voice.

"I was... Heum... Still sat. And all these people stood and turned to the scene. Except a guy, I think. It was quick but I saw him on the back row and he stayed sat down. He was with a chick, sorry, a _woman_ . She didn't look, either, and she took her stuff and they were the first ones to leave."

John and Sherlock look at each other and the detective resumes, as cool as a cucumber.

"All right, and how did this man look?"

"Quite small. And fat. He were walking strangely."

"Could you recognise him if you saw him again?"

"Oh, nope. I just turned my head quickly, you know. I didn't know someone got shot. I had no idea they could be guilty."

Sherlock takes out of the file that John is still holding against him, and brings out the seat plan before spreading it over the sedan's bonnet.

"Thank you for your participation but I'll determine if they are guilty or not. Where were they sitting?"

"Somewhere over there, I believe," indicates Jennings by crushing his dirty finger on two seats, and at least neither Sherlock nor John need to take out a felt-tip to make a mark.

"Very well," concludes the detective by folding up the plan and giving it to John.

"And, if you talk to Eleonora, don't tell her I spoke to you about Tim, eh? Afterward, she's just gonna invent bullshit and say I said she was a bitch. I've never said she's a bitch. Well, I said it now but just to tell you that I didn't say it. You won't tell her, right?"

Sherlock closes the buttons of his jacket and shakes his head slightly - probably excessively irritated by the completely rough syntaxes of the driver - and smiles, looking at his flatmate.

"It's amazing to see how much Mr. Jennings is _controlled_ by his wife's spitefulness."

John's stomach squeezes up at the mention of the word that has haunted him since the visit to Sherrer's place. He smiles to hold back flowery insults that he learned so well from Lestrade.

"I don't know if 'controlled' is the word, Sherlock..,"

"Well, his life's made so that he is conditioned to comply with certain obligations, therefore, I think we can say that he is _controlled_, yes. For sure, we shall not say that he is _dominated_, because this is completely different," says the detective with the simplest smile.

"Very well, seen like that, everybody is controlled by something then," laughs John bitterly, crossing his arms against his chest and facing his unbearable flatmate with totally inappropriate ideas.

"Of course, John. Everybody."

"Even the two people - other than Mr. Jennings - present in this car park?"

"Even those two people," confirms the younger one with a sign of the head.

"What are you talking about?" intervenes Craig Jennings, with a lost look on his face and a trembling voice.

"Nothing. Thank you for your time," concludes John by turning on his heels, followed by Sherlock, carefully staying some steps behind him.

They're backtracking, seeing the same paintings that are still so ugly, the same lawyers who are still so unbearable that John carefully avoids looking at them so as not to be tempted by the desire to scream at one of them. Even if it would be much more intelligent to shout at Sherlock. And even more intelligent to replace the shouts with words, because they really need to speak about this obsession that the detective has for this domination thing. And all this began because of a turtleneck... Unless it began before. In brief, domination or not, the fact remains that to mention their private life in front of a suspect is a mixture of non-professionalism and total disrespect, and it is this last point which still has John's knees trembling.

It is stupid; they are only words and for a soldier who went to war, it is not a set of consonants and vowels which will put him on the ground like that, but that touches a point in his stomach so deep it seems miles and years away from what he really is; and yet, that calls into question _everything_. In such a disturbing way, John wonders what all of this really hides.

"You want to interrogate Anna Sanchez now or would you like to discuss what controls the girl at the reception desk? Ah, wait, look at the garbage man on the pavement there, do you believe he's more controlled by the collection of cardboard or glass?" suggests John with irony and clenched teeth, but before Sherlock is able to pronounce the slightest word, he feels his pocket vibrating and gets his mobile out of it, before sticking it on his ear.

"Hello?"

"_John Watson? Doctor Jones of Saint Thomas' Hospital. Are you Harriet Watson's brother?_ "

The heart of the doctor misses a beat. He waves at Sherlock to make him stay silent. There's always this one phone call which we dread, the one which rings in the middle of the night and pulls us out of our life to plunge us into a nightmare of which we had never imagined the existence of. For John, the phone call arrives at 11:02 am.

"What happened?"

"She had a bad fall, but her vital diagnosis is not compromised; fracture of the fibula with a small movement which we reduced with a fixed immobilisation. She just came back from the recovery room and as you are the person to contact according to her insurance..."

"I'll be right there."

The soldier hangs up and turns around to discover Sherlock already on his heels, his face more concerned than ever - of course, he has already understood.

"Do I have to come with you?"

"No, don't. I have to go to see her... You... Well... I have to go," he ends with a firm voice, hand already raised to stop a taxi.

John has never loved hospitals. It is stupid for a doctor, but that is the way it is. As with most children, he discovered for the first time the cold and sterile atmosphere of a hospital one Sunday, during a family visit to see his grandmother with a new hip - however in plastic. He remembers having been struck by the silence, only punctuated by the humming of the machines which held alive the entire geriatrics department. When he wanted to be a doctor - but his parents couldn't afford to pay for him to go to a renowned school - and he ended up doing a training course of military medicine, the silence was not really something that he met again.

For the family of the sick person, we dim the voices, we speak slowly, we hide the inhuman muck-up which takes place behind the scenes; between the rooms of the nurses in depression and the operations rooms where we open, dissect and close someone like a piece of meat. So, when John Watson crosses the door of the London Bridge Hospital as a visitor, all which is murmured roars in his ears, and these things that we cannot see jump to his face.

In the room where his sister stays, there are 4 other busy beds, hidden behind curtains that have been closed. Of course, Harry is claustrophobic so they left hers opened, even if she sleeps soundly, dulled by medicine. She has purple-encircled, swollen eyes and her cheeks are red, punctuated with visible bursted veins. Her right leg is wrapped in an impressive plaster cast and her amorphous arms are lazily resting on her stomach.

"Well, hello big sister," he murmurs, grabbing a chair which he scrapes against the lino ground to take a place next to Harry.

* * *

><p>When John opens his eyes, it's because the grandchildren of the old man on the bed on the opposite side are playing with the blinds, screaming the song of an advertisement. The ex-soldier gets ready to smile at their mother, sat on a chair similar to his, but the woman doesn't even make the start of a gesture of excuse to the rest of the room, so, he swallows his useless kindness. If Harry was awake, she would have shouted at the kids without hesitation and would have received apologies from their family, the medical staff and the Queen mother gathered. She has that, his sister, this power to say out loud what the youngest of the Watson thinks silently. Of course, John envies her that.<p>

* * *

><p>After his fourth journey to the vending machine which is short of M&amp;M's, John finally stops on the seventh floor terrace to look at the city wrapped in a night punctuated by thousands of small enlightened windows. He closes his jacket and realises that it would finally be time to look for his jumpers, hidden by the good care of his joint flatmate. And as the wolf that Sherlock Holmes can be, John just has to think of him for his mobile to vibrate.<p>

_Mrs. Hudson gave me a dish covered with aluminum foil. SH_

The doctor cannot refrain from smiling and replies immediately.

_Knowing her, it's edible._

_Then that is intended for you. Should I leave it on the kitchen table or do you prefer that I bring it to you? SH_

The blond raises an eyebrow, his mouth hidden in the collar of his jacket which he raised, his left hand inside his pocket's warmth.

_That's the second time that you've suggested accompanying me today; is everything all right, Sherlock?_

Too dry? He adds before sending the message:

_That's the second time that you've suggested accompanying me today; is everything all right, Sherlock :D? _

Too stupid.

_That's the second time that you've suggested accompanying me today; is everything all right, Sherlock?_

And this time, he presses his thumb to the _Send_ button. The answer is not immediate, so he walks slowly in the cold, hums quietly by skipping on the spot to warm himself a little. When he returns to his sister's bedroom again, he will be obligated to switch off his cell phone because of the electronic waves. He doesn't really want to switch off his cell phone.

_Did you really mean what you said earlier, in the car park?_

And this time, he doesn't even read his message again before sending it. There is something so much simpler, when it comes to sending texts. It is easier for John to express things which he wouldn't even think in front of Sherlock. Unless it's a matter of courage, he isn't quite sure.

_Yes. SH_

He inhales and stops walking to answer.

_There are things I have to take care of, Sherlock, that's the way it is. If that's enough for you to say that I have a problem with control, then okay, I have a problem with control. Happy?_

_And you, are you happy? SH_

_I don't know if it's the correct word. It isn't something that I've thought about. And even less that I've called into question. _

_Do I have the right to call it into question? SH_

John gets ready to answer, but his mobile vibrates again immediately.

_Do I have the right to call you* into question? SH_

_There is something in you, John, which you do not even know, something that I observed. That I feel. That I want to make you discover. And I think about it. SH _

_Often. SH_

_You switched off your cell phone, right? You returned to see your sister. SH_

_Obviously, Harriet is incapable of taking care of herself. SH_

_Take good care of her, John. SH_

_One day, you will accept that someone takes care of you. SH _


	7. The Sofa

**Note:** Thank you guys for the reviews on this story, it means the world to me! And lots, lots of love to **Morwen Maranwe** who is an amazing beta and a wonderful human being.

* * *

><p>More hot water on his fair hair covered with some cheap shampoo and John finally turns the creaking faucet off. Cursing the coldness which crawls like a snake on his wet skin, he skips outside the shower of the first floor and wraps himself in the towel he prepared on the edge of the sink. With a hand, he quickly removes the vapor on the small mirror and inspects himself - blurred, of course - before ruffling his hair with the towel. He heard Sherlock coming out of his room approximately ten minutes ago and now, according to the noises he hears at intervals, he can deduce the detective is in the kitchen.<p>

Yesterday evening, he had returned home long after the end of visitation hours, playing on his doctor's status to guarantee to his colleagues that his alcoholic sister would need to see a familiar face when she woke up. They spoke for a long time about the tests they had made her undergo before the operation, which revealed an alcohol level so high in her blood that even their father would have found it indecent, and then talked about psychological help she could benefit from once she was back on her feet. Dulled by medicine, Harry woke up twice, if 'waking up' is a term which can be used when somebody drools approximately three words while opening half of an eye. They weren't able to discuss her fall, or the bottles found at the foot of her bed by the first-aid workers, so John already planned to return to the hospital as soon as possible to speak to his sister about a detoxification, which is becoming more and more vital.

Once back in Baker Street, the doctor hadn't taken any offense at the faded lights and the silence. He had walk directly to his room, before falling asleep still half dressed, hand tightened around the mobile which he hadn't switched off after his small tour on the terrace. But that's something Sherlock doesn't need to know.

Finally dressed, John goes out of the wet bathroom and discovers his joint flatmate in the kitchen, standing next to a table on which he put a newspaper which he goes through with two delicate fingers. His right hand around a steaming cup, the brown-haired man just raises his eyes to greet the newcomer.

"How is she?"

"Bad, otherwise she wouldn't have fallen dead drunk down her staircase - is there some hot water left?"

"I've already served you."

The blond man thanks him with a nod and leans against the least used counter before slowly savouring his green tea with subtle flavors of grapefruit.

"You went to question Anna Sanchez?"

"No, I waited for you. I need my blogger to deduce if a suspect has a child he wants to get back."

John smiles over the perfumed steam of his hot drink, which he turns slowly to melt the sugar Sherlock thought of adding.

"What do you think of Jennings?"

"He's a bloody idiot."

"Concerning the case, I mean."

"Ah. He is innocent. He wouldn't do a thing that would prevent him from seeing his son."

The detective finally closes the newspaper and gets ready to throw it away. John watches him bending next to him to aim at the rubbish bin and they are almost as close as when they visited Sherrer's flat; when Sherlock spoke to him about this control thing for the first time. They _have_ to speak about it.

"Are you ready?"

"For what?" John swallows heavily, tightening his fingers around the ceramic which burns his skin.

"To go interrogate Sanchez. She is married to Amos Sanchez, one of the musicians who was at the performance the night of the murder, and I'm dying to know which other musician he's sleeping with."

"He's _cheating_ on her?"

"Obviously, why would she have attended the previous five performances otherwise?"

John smiles, catches the jacket Sherlock throws at him from the lounge with his free hand, and shakes his head.

"You know Sherlock, for a sociopath, you are fucking brilliant."

* * *

><p>When both men ring at 190 Westbourne Grove, they don't speak about the fur coats they see a few meters away from there, and about the restaurants with exorbitant prices, offering dishes John didn't even know existed. The house which they face is painted with a dark grey. They wait no more than one minute before a woman comes to open the door.<p>

"Yes?"

"Madam Sanchez? I'm Sherlock Holmes and here's my assistant John Watson. We're here to ask you some questions concerning ..."

"Yes, yes of course, come in," the woman interrupts him, letting them enter.

John climbs the last step and passes in front of their host. He finally discovers how tall she is. Half Asian, she must be about forty, as you can tell by the lion's wrinkle on her forehead. She has bobbed hair made of a dense black. She barely has make-up on her eyes but her lips are painted with a pink coral lipstick, and though John is not a follower of highly philosophic readings such as Vogue, even he can say she chose that color to look younger. Her left hand is wrapped in a splint which she hides under the sleeve of a two piece suit of deep blue, the beige end of her shoes showing. Not even heels. John has no excuse to be the smallest one here.

"Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," answers Sherlock, eyes already scrutinising everything around them in the lounge where they are led.

Both of the men take a seat on a leather sofa which goes _shrieek_ under their buttocks and John has a moved thought for his armchair back at the clinic.

"Tell us about the evening," asks the detective, crossing his long legs slowly.

"I've already told everything to the police."

"Obviously you didn't, because the murderer is still out there and because you were placed a few meters away from him. Unless it was you?"

"I beg your pardon?" the woman laughs, statically.

"Madam Sanchez, you're married to a musician of the orchestra, right?" intervenes John, too comfortably seated in the warmth to be kicked out of the house because of his flatmate's indelicacy.

"... Yes. I am a harpist but I fell off a horse a few weeks ago. I cannot play before December."

"Why did you go to the concert, then?"

"To support my husband. And I love Listz."

"Enough to go to listen to it six times, _always in the same seat_?" asks Sherlock.

Anna Sanchez pinches her lips in such a controlled way that John can only mentally bow before the deductions of his friend; only women with tainted honour know how to hide their feelings.

"It was easier to reserve that way with Royal Concert Hall," she answers without any emotion in her voice.

Sherlock shakes his head once and rests all his back against the sofa's pillow. John continues.

"You knew Mister Sherrer, then?"

"Barely. We are more than 80 permanent members of the orchestra. We mainly meet for the rehearsals and traditionally go to eat all together the day before a first performance, but I never really spoke to him. He was rather eccentric, you know. He liked surrounding himself with a lot of people and he spoke, _a lot_. I was never really close to this kind of personality."

"It still must have been a shock that he was killed in the middle of the performance..."

"Of course, the idea that a musician can be shot down on stage is terrifying."

Definitely, the resentment she feels about her husband is so tangible as her terrible quietness makes the flatmate understand that the idea doesn't displease her.

"What post does your husband occupy?"

"He is the Second violin."

"Then he was seated on the left side of the stage, is that correct?" asks John who tries to remember the room.

"Yes, he saw nothing either, if that is your question."

"And what post does she occupy?" suddenly asks Sherlock.

"I beg your pardon?"

John turns his head and the brown-haired man nods to make them understand that he'll be silent from now on. So, here they are; Anna Sanchez knows that Sherlock knows and John knows that Anna Sanchez knows that Sherlock knows, and everybody keeps silent about this adultery with as much lightness as a rural picnic during a sunny. God, how aristocratic families are difficult to manage...

"During the performance, would you have seen anything strange? A sleazy spectator, a strange noise..."

"No," she confirms so dryly that John keeps silent immediately.

A telephone rings in the kitchen and the woman gets up, apologizing automatically. The doctor loudly sighs, as if this heavy atmosphere had led him to forget how to breathe, and falls against the sofa's pillow too, turning his head toward his friend who explains immediately:

"She saw nothing because she had her eyes fixed on her husband."

"It's oppresive how she refuses to speak about it while, clearly, we all know it," replies John, bewildered.

"Which is common in this kind of well-to-do family."

"She is completely controlled by appearances."

John doesn't move any more, amazed by his own sentence. Not the best idea to speak about it at a suspect's place.

"I mean, because apparently everybody is controlled by something..." the doctor tries to explain by massaging his neck, hiding his face behind his forearm.

"Very good deduction, John. What about you?"

"What _about_ me?"

"Did you find out what you are controlled by?"

"I'm sorry I had to take that call," sighs Sanchez, returning to the lounge. "Do you have all the information you need?" she asks, lazily raising her eyebrows to show her profound boredom to both men, who leave the sofa which goes _shriieeek_ again - certainly to say goodbye to them.

"We're done," retorts Sherlock by coming to shake her hand and before she closes the front door behind them, he turns around to add, "I found that the cello player in the third row was particularly bad."

Anna Sanchez opens her eyes and for the first time that day, the dry botox of her cheeks lets perceive an appearance of human reaction: a touched smile.

"Yes... It is a vulgar young woman."

"And certainly not very interesting in the long run. I imagine she attracts men for whims without future. You can't build anything with this kind of woman. Well, good day Mrs Sanchez."

The woman hardly shakes her head and slowly closes the door, plunging both men into the usual cold of the capital.

"Guilty?" asks the doctor once they leave the front steps.

"Are you kidding? If she had had a weapon, she would have aimed at her husband and not at Sherrer."

John smiles and waves a hand at the car which lets them cross, before resuming:

"Why did you do it, Sherlock? You're incapable of consoling a father of whom we took the son and yet you feel sorry for a woman whom her husband cheats on?"

"I did what you couldn't do."

"What? Don't be stupid, I could have..." he begins to laugh, but Sherlock immediately stops him by raising a hand to catch his attention.

"_Stop_. You don't have to take care of everything, you know. Let me handle certain things for you, all right?"

"Why?" John smiles to hide any other terrifying emotion growing in his belly.

"Because you are unhappy, John Watson."

* * *

><p>Later that day, back at Baker Street, on the first floor living-room's sofa , John sorts out his sister's insurance papers. The afternoon spent by her side was a new ordeal in their fragile relationship. Unmistakably, Harriet is well woken now, seeing the scandals she made when she respectively discovered the dress the hospital gave her, her lunch, and the fact that there was no TV in the room. They didn't speak about alcohol, under the doctors' advice and that's not something John really missed. In the meantime, he took the necessary brochures to register her in an expensive but renowned detoxification program.<p>

He catches the empty envelope on which he wrote his accounts with a pencil and inhales through his nose. If he manages to combine the current case and his half-time at the clinic, he should be able to make it.

One hand rubbing his dry and sleepy eyes, he consults the hour on his mobile. It's past midnight and tomorrow looks to be as challenging as the other days of the week. Yet he can't make the decision to tidy up everything and to go to bed. The prospect of switching off the light and ending up alone in front of himself isn't very exciting.

_You are unhappy, John Watson._

It was a dirty, low blow; how Sherlock used his first _and_ last name to emphasise his deductions. John didn't answer anything - of course, what can you reply to that? - he just nod his head once, a mechanical inheritance of his military training, to prove he understood, then they left without a word up to the mortuary where Sherlock proceeded to inspect Sherrer' body for himself, in spite of the advanced examination which Molly Hooper had already made under the pressure of Scotland Yard and _The Sun_ combined.

John had remained seated on a plastic chair, looking at his flatmate wrapped in his long black coat, swirling around the white naked body, and rocked by the chiaroscuro of the scene, not a word had gone out of his mouth. Of course, Sherlock found nothing, John deduced nothing and this waste of time had only consolidated them in the respective muteness.

Combat, John is used to it. He fought next to twenty-year-old young men, against an enemy who he had never quite seen the outlines of but whom he had smelt the blood of. He even grew up with an alcoholic father and a sister who was a fan of Madonna; for sure, John's familiar with battlefields. Still, today everything is harder than what he crossed in his life. Maybe it's the old age, the fatigue, or both combined, but his shoulders don't seem as solid as before. And the prospect is harrowing

He pushes away the papers which still need to be filled out and gets up to unwind his legs in the silent lounge. At every passage in front of the corridor, he glances at the door at the end of it. He knows Sherlock is working in it since he returned from the hospital because he heard some noises, but he never went to knock there.

_Unhappy._

How could John be unhappy? He is a man – he's not a child, to begin- he has his two arms and his two legs, a roof for the night and a filled refrigerator - well, most of the time. So, maybe Sherlock grew up in a family where his parents expressed their feelings with delicacy, during perfectly healthy and well-balanced conversations, the fact remains that at the Watson's, they never learnt to question their feelings, and even less to juggle with nuance. Because nuances are like a snow globe. At first glance, you believe your world is a perfect and motionless scene, but it's enough to shake it with nothing but a small wrist movement before waking up hundreds of small flakes, which come to blur the fanciful idea you had made of your life. John's family never wanted to shake a snow globe.

The corridor's wooden floor creaks and the doctor raises his eyes. Sherlock finally comes out of his room, still dressed, his eyes a bit puffy - doubtlessly pressed for too long behind the microscope which disappeared from the kitchen table a few weeks ago. They greet each other with a nod before the detective looks down towards the papers which sprinkle the ground, and bends to catch one between his long fingers.

"You spoke to her about the rehabilitation?"

"Not yet. It's already hard enough to make her take paracetamol... She says medications are poison."

"Ironic."

Sherlock inhales, puts the paper on the sofa and slides his hands in the pockets of his trousers before turning back, promptly stopped by the voice of his flatmate.

"Sherlock, wait."

Slowly, inch by inch, the detective turns around, with his chin low and his eyes focused on the doctor. His face expresses nothing, but Sherlock Holmes just has to be himself for John to feel exposed.

"Did I miss something? I mean, the last few days, you have been..."

"Thoughtful?"

"Creepy."

"_Creepy_?"

"You constantly take care of me, you suggest accompanying me to the hospital or managing certain things for me," he enumerates, using his fingers in a useless gesture.

"And that worries you?"

"That's not _you_," John decrees with a tone meant to end all discussions.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and John mentally congratulates himself for at least once in his life achieving to surprise the detective. But the pride is short-lived when the face of the brown-haired man suddenly gets tense and his jaw squeezes. Sherlock looks _disappointed_. John had already seen Mycroft being the origin of this expression, but how he feels pitiful for being the reason right now.

"I see," Sherlock finally answers, and before John can reply he takes his hands out of his pockets and gets closer to the soldier.

With every new step, the doctor believes that Sherlock's going to stop, in vain. Sherlock is getting closer and closer, until they find the same awkward closeness of the pavement in front of Sherrer's place. There is no sun and John wonders what will be the excuse of his flatmate this time, but the youngest one says nothing. Delicately, he raises his hands and it's obvious he takes his time to give John time to step backward, to shout or to push him away, maybe. But John does not move, because for once in his life - only _once_ - he wants to know what it feels like to be motionless. They look at each other, don't even blink even if it burns their pupils - some kind of male pride, as usual - and when Sherlock finally puts his hands on the cheeks of the man he overhangs, it's not soft. It's not violent either. It is a gesture so confident that it looks like they have been making it all their lives.

The thumbs of the detective rest in the hollows of the soft cheeks, the rest of his fingers waiting under his jaw, and as if his neck had no more use anymore John feels his head supported in a way he had never known before. That lasts one second, maybe two, but it's already sufficient to frighten him, because that proves to him that it is possible to get rid of this nasty weight which presses against his back, his lungs and all of his old body, for so many years.

"You want to know if you can trust me, before you let yourself go."

John doesn't answer and Sherlock smiles. It's not his "I've won" smile, nor the superior one which he brings out when a suspect admits to being guilty. It's such a discreet smile that it's necessary to be as close as they are to see it. He just has the left corner of his mouth raised and the edges of his eyes are punctuated by small wrinkles more expressive than all of those which John has already seen in his life.

With his thumbs, Sherlock barely caresses the badly shaved skin, until his right slowly slides up to the doctor's mouth, which he by-passes from the bottom before pressing his chin. It takes a few seconds for John to understand his flatmate did so to make him open his mouth. Sherlock's probably waiting for an answer to this, but it just sends a despicable shiver from his back up along the vertebral column to the jaw which he closes immediately.

Sherlock smiles (but this time, his eyes don't get wrinkled) before slowly releasing the cheeks of his friend.

"I have plenty of time."

With the left hand, he gently taps his friend's shoulder before turning back to his bedroom, of which he left the door open. Hidden under the embrasure, the fingers around the latch, ready to close behind him, he is stopped by John, still standing in the middle of the lounge.

"Wait," growls the ex-soldier with a voice made hoarse by embarrassment, "That's all? We're not going to speak about it?"

"We didn't need words to _speak_ about it. I learnt the main thing."

"Which is?"

"You are not ready but you're thinking about it. And that obsesses you," he looks at his watch and raises his head "It's late, go to sleep. We'll go question the Walsh sisters tomorrow."

John shakes his head, gaze lowered towards the papers he still needs to fill, sort out, and send. They are fine and light but they represent an abyss of everything he has to take care of and face. And even if he hears the door of his flatmate's bedroom closing and even if he knows he's alone, he abandons the medical records and walks up the stairs of Baker Street without a word.

Maybe because he's too tired to face all this.

Or maybe because Sherlock ordered it.


End file.
